The incense came through the door. The good men and women held the bouquets and arranged a few columns in the open space in front of the temple to make a squat. The yellow tiles and red walls were filled with smoke, and the daylight was smoked. The Buddha statue in the temple was low-brow, and the gold body was a little dim, but the fresh fruit color was very new. A woman knelt on the scorpion, closed her eyes, her lips moved, about what she wanted. There stood a little shami, aged fifteen or sixty, whose eyes were cloudy early, just staring at the banknotes in the hands of tourists. After turning to the hall of the Falun, several tourists were swirling around the prayer wheel, their fingers ringing with brass drums. They laughed, and thought they had accumulated some merit. The Buddha's gate is clean, and after all, it can't escape the noise of this world.