In ancient times, I could only write to you without knowing where we would meet next time. And when the green water was drunk at the foot of the green mountain, we just held each other’s fists and knew that we would meet again in the future.
In ancient times, one had to write many poems to become a Taoist priest in Mount Laoshan, pass through the wall, pass through the air, and then pass through a cup of green bamboo leaves before catching a close friend.
Now, if I send a bunch of five-stroke glyphs to your mailbox, they will know how to run hard for me, waiting for your mouse click. And when you dial a number, I can immediately experience all your joys and sorrows.
Over the years, we have interacted and gotten to know each other like this, but is this person beside us a life-and-death acquaintance, a fair-weather friend, or an acquaintance of a villain?
