It is the beginning yet the end, the end yet the beginning. It is the reunion yet the discrete, the starting point yet the destination. There has never been a place that can collect the flow of such people and that can have such joys and sorrows. From morning to day, from dusk to night, from night to dawn, countless footprints, with soil from all over the world, step on it: red earth from the mountains, brown earth from the fields, black earth from the cities, and white earth from the coast. Those soil gathers and disperses, accumulates and falls. No seed can grow roots in the soil, just like no pair of feet will stay here. Because it’s just floating clay, and it’s just the platform of the past.
