The lotus leaves were lush.
The azure ripples flowed and overlapped, emitting strips of bright light.
Long hair fell over shoulders, tangled among spread fingers, curling into small loops.
Waves of light filtered through the strands, hazy and blurred.
Eying's hair was like a type of moist, pliant plant. With the water-like gaze, the water-like thoughts, silently poured upon it, it grew slowly, very black, very fine, and very soft.
He grasped a lock of hair and pressed it to his ear.
He heard the sound of branches sprouting and smelled the fresh, green scent.
After twirling the supple tips of the hair for a while, Liang Qu went on to clasp the pale hand, inch by inch, joint by joint, as if a blind person was feeling their way, embossing poems in braille with tiny pins.
The fingers were soft, the nails hard, the faint pink of the nail beds spreading out along the crescent.
Long Eying also awkwardly responded in kind.
