You know how this is. If I look at the crystal（结晶） moon at the red branch（树枝） of the slow autumn at my window. If I touch near the fire, the impalpable ash（灰） or the wrinkled body of the log（航行日志）. Everything carries me to you. As if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles（岛） of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me, I shall stop loving you little by little.