Shen Qinqgiu lies down on the couch, listening, letting his brain conjure little fantasies against the ceiling of the room above him. At first they're nonspecific, following the mood of the music; the meandering buzzing of bees; the fluttering of curious little songbirds, hopping and weaving between stalks of bamboo. These then morph into sort of loony-tunes caricatures as the song gets more openly comedic, and he huffs a laugh to himself—a fluffy little black dog cavorting with one of the songbirds, who keeps hopping onto his head and fluttering away again into the leaves. Back and forth, back and forth, the dog playfully snapping at the bird, not to harm, just to catch, the bird seeing teeth and fleeing in alarm before being drawn back by inevitable curiosity.