Thousands of lights, see too much, will only be more lonely

Thousands of lights, see too much, will only be more lonely.

The winter rain knocked on the window, and A burst of attacks struck, and I woke up from my dream and reappeared next to me, my clothes were already soaked, and I imagined that it was the second winter rain.

In the early morning, leaning on a column of rain, I was feeling the chill.

Faintly wet and wet, so the clothes fluttered, stretched out into the hands, and there was no place to stand out. The fingertips touched lightly, and in a trance, I saw the figure of my mother in an instant.

The mother was heavy and walked, and her steps were as thin as shuttles.

Standing in front of the wet window, across the lawn wet by the rain, the lonely figure, in the long and lonely rain alley, I always remember what she looked like when she was young. Behind her, so thin and simple, long and straight figure, white and handsome, the skin is clear, the skin is shiny, like a drop of dew.

I walked down the autumn streets with my head down, my raincoats all white, the wind blowing, the dusty skirts all looking clean.

Occasionally passing pedestrians, cleaning up and dropping a few pieces of dry yellow and falling on the ground, still let you see me incomparably clearly, in the memory, clearly emerging, in the familiar figure, like floating.

In the alley, holding a flower umbrella under an old locust tree with a thin stone slab, the raindrops fell to the ground, making a "ding-ding-dong" sound, which was the kind of memory that came from afar.