日记：

At 3am, I ran with my puppy downstairs.
His ears took flight—and so did mine.

Just moments before, I’d opened the door and found a cloud suspended right there in my room.
(I thought by now I’d outgrown the warmth and damp a cloud requires.)

Somehow, earlier— back in my bar— we were already waving our hands around, trying to explain what “silly-bubbling water”(冒憨水）means:
“Just imagine you're gurgling and bubbling over, spilling nothing but the foolishness right out of your mind—that's what it is.”

I dropped my head but still couldn't hide my smile.
Maybe I’d left the door a bit ajar that day.
How else could all these young, silly things have slipped in again—
the plants, the black cat, the shared songs and documentaries, and a pair of shining eyes?

I only know when I sobered up— a few days and conversations after— that I saw it：
there hung a cloud—
right in the middle of my room.

A bit too pristine, and too soft(?), for an age like this, or does it?

I paused, looked down. The “medal of growth” I held so tightly was faintly flickering—
something I’d found in the widening grass after the fog had cleared.
And yet, somehow, it felt just fine.
“So it could just be a star.” I murmured.