(This is a humble attempt to re-create Google’s English rendition of Mei’s recent contribution in grammatical English, while maintaining the, um, literary integrity of the original translation.)

Once, when the Winter was two feet high, Old Young and Mr. Narrow Room crept out between the solemn plants, leaving Little Peas unborn. “Where are you going?” asked the night, but the Tao was lost in recollection.

Mr. Narrow Room trips, hundreds of pot plants are in jeopardy, but by the Ten Articles of Association the basin is divided into six areas of three zones, each having seven parts with two equal courtyards, ruled over by counts, seneschals, umbrella merchants and small strange dogs that do not, in all likelihood, exist. Nothing, yet, was lost.

So at last they came to the meeting place. Keira Knightley looked together, but the words she spoke were fierce. “We have inventoried umbrella enough! Let us inventory wolf.” The old capacity muttered “agave, agave…” Their hand-held nozzles numbered thousands; the operation would not be superficial. “Do not worry!” we gibbered, “Lianghu water every day wait, can not be wrong!” It was pale Old Young’s moment, yet I was not sure if I was joking or serious.

Young Old’s heart held a map of their Bay Area plants, but this was not so useful, we did not want to open him up to look. But as long as his car had a supply of methedrine, he would still find the facilities at seeming random. Someone would get into the yard, clinging to the trees with a thin look. Old Young himself went recognising everywhere, he was not cattle, the masses could never understand. His wife had to mace her close friends.

At the last, all they had was bald stalk children and eighty seven pots of dream orchids.

But that was then. Garrulous Old Young can now be spotted at the lump growers annual meeting, sitting in the corner on a trivet, offering citrus opinions. “The Bennet doorstep tree trees are props, though I am not sure about the non-tree trees, and my eye is not the first to see the Alpine beauty of the sea.” And for myself? I am very rare pots.

But still, at times, the answer hovers in wanting. Crossing a red light, they are just able to glimpse it. Twenty-three, twenty-three. You should stay to see the old buds. Beautiful.