In his heart, it was as if there was a brush filled with endless ink, and a canvas that could stretch infinitely, continuously deconstructing the world before him.
Gu Weijing stared at the column with an old-fashioned bronze clock hanging at the train station.
If he wished, his mind could automatically dissect the scene before him, elegantly and with artistic flair, into countless interwoven points, lines, surfaces, and various colored blocks.
Imagining capturing it with different strokes of the brush.
