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... a pine tree perched on the waist of the small mountain, calmly playing his bamboo flute.
She had heard this tune outside that unnamed ancient temple in Mount Ji Yang back in Long Xi when death had waited for her outside a shoddy wooden door.
A Dream of Mountain and River, and when the dream passed, so too did the rivers and mountains.
Now, on this squat, nameless mountain outside Dijing, he called down to her as she rushed home, his robes white like snow.
Zong Chen.
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