Coming into your eyes is a cold desolation, without any mildness, or smooth, or moist, but scars all over, puckerings and the vicissitudes of life. Only the damaged heavenly lake and the spring on the top indistinctly tells you its past glory and warmth. Lonely because of desolation, isolated because of loneliness, ascetics experienced thousands of years just to seek for a land “for nothing” like this.