1in the autumn of 987, my father took me to a normal school in a small town with a schoolbag on his back. The situation is very similar to the autumn harvest in the countryside. My father hung the big and full corn on the trees on both sides of the gate, and the rest were spread out in the yard. I am an only child, and my father works hard for my education.

I remember that the road in the town is very wide, the sky is very small, and there are trees on both sides of the road. Later, I learned that it was a French phoenix tree, because a poem-even the phoenix tree speaks elegant French. At that time, I was covered with scars, like cotton ravaged by cotton bollworm; Looking again, there is no corn on the tree, and there can be no corn. My body immediately hung on the whistle in the town.

I still remember that as soon as I entered school, the school emphasized that everyone should have special skills. I can't play, I can't play, I can't sing, I can't play Van Gogh Miller, I can only read and write. My composition was read by my class teacher in primary school. My father told me that the grass will still be grass in the next year, and the young trees may grow into big trees. When I was reading a book, I had an illusion. I thought I was walking barefoot on the soft ridge, and my father shouted by the river: Where is the water going? Here it is! Here, where I stand. I heard the sound of water inside the plants. I started crossing the zebra crossing in a small town as a countryman. I jumped lightly and met the poem.

I am the only countryman who writes poetry in a small town. My hometown is the nearest language to me. The wind in the town is very low. The town is only separated from the countryside by a fence. Often on weekends, I will take a book to the mountain east of the town for a date. In front of my eyes, it is a village surrounded by light smoke, like some cabbages in a vegetable garden, while a small town looks like a wild chrysanthemum. Then there was a girl who painted. She paints mountains and trees as well as I do, and I paint mountains and trees as well as she does. Such a scene, we call it "poetic", and our days are "poetic". She has a deck of the world famous paintings's poker. When the two of us play, we are often reluctant to play cards, and study them tightly in our hands, like past lives's happiness.

Perhaps what I want to say most is that love gives me a sense of freshness. Love is wind, sunshine, the street of a small town, the latest issue of poetry magazine, fresh, clean, bright and crystal-like color. She sat on the back frame of her bicycle and let me walk poetically through the monotonous buildings in the town. There is a surge of passion in my body. In the midday sun, I habitually narrowed my eyes. The world is narrow, but my heart is wide. In the dark, her name shone brightly on my pillow like a bright moonlight. She told me that during the summer vacation, she watched TV all day, and the tone of the hero's voice was really like yours, as low as a breeze blowing across the lake.

1990, not only the love song 1990 was popular, but also many stories rippled in this small town. One of my male classmates met a girl and got a haircut in the board room opposite the school. I went, and that girl was really beautiful. Her long hair is fluttering and has an elegant beauty. The scary thing is that there is a guitar hanging on the wall. The problem is that after a few steps, the hairstyle she blew me was blown in a mess by the realistic wind, so I had to comb it back by hand. Is this a metaphor?

The town doesn't grow crops, and the streets of buildings are just plain or grayish yellow. Out of school, I often go to a newspaper retail department. Renmin Road is a straight tree. It's a persimmon on the tree, a persimmon on the high ground. The literary periodicals there are as fresh as if their hands were dirty. I bought Poetry Magazine, Star Poetry Magazine and Poetry God and Poetry Newspaper. At that time, I couldn't understand some articles, just like persimmons just picked in my hometown, which had to be covered with urns for several days. The shopkeeper is a country woman. You can read books without buying them. She washes her own clothes and chooses her own vegetables to make a fire. Before you buy books, you should pass by an optical shop. The female boss is from Shaanxi, and we communicate in Mandarin: glasses, bright and beautiful. Her signboard is "Meiliang Optical Shop". It seems like a ritual to "light up" your eyes and read a book, just like washing your hands before burning incense, just like years later, you put on your tie and shoes and go on a serious blind date.

I'm beginning to like small towns. I like to make street lamps with loud charm for long streets, and I like the shallow and deep shadows under the street lamps. The vocabulary of a small town is still the same every day: cars, tall buildings and prices. But I'm after love, eternal love. Only through these three words, I can infer that Shi Shi is a woman, intelligent and witty, inclined to the streets. I'm madly in love. So that when I lost a true love, I still cling to poetry and warmth, and still maintain the characteristics of love. I speak in a low voice, my eyes are soft when I stare, and my steps are light when I walk. "Even if there is a biting cold wind on my face,/it should be your advice from afar." When I think of this sentence written in the past, my heart is full of endless happiness.

Small town, only * * *. It kept my love, and it was different.

Many years later, I returned to work in a small town. The board house near the school has long been demolished. At night, the karaoke bars emit scarlet light, and the city begins to have excess energy. The optical shop moved to the busy road and became the "Meiliang Optical City". The pavement of the newspaper retail department is still the same, and it has returned to the past in a trance. I bought all the expired literary periodicals in one breath and moved back, which made a room full of colleagues laugh and scream.

Out-of-date, worthless, discounted, you bought it at the original price? hahaha.

Now almost all cities have new districts, and small cities are no exception. I am here. It's an old district, and it's obviously an overdue grayish yellow plain periodical. No, it should be a porcelain. The longer the time, the greater the value. Bright as ever.

Second, the dream of a scholar in the hometown of Liaozhai

When I go to Zibo, what I want to see most is the fox essence fairy. Obviously, this wish cannot be realized. However, there is an unspeakable motive hidden in my heart, which makes my trip destined to be beautiful.

It is best to ride a lean donkey and go at night. Rain, very antique. After the wind blew you to a ruined temple, you disappeared. Not far, it's better to have more ancient tombs. The feet of the rain are still on the road, and the poplar rustling is still by the ditch. However, they are all hidden outside a flashing blue light. The yellow scroll in the schoolbag is wet. What is not wet is your clear voice. Suddenly, a voice of sorrow from Chu said, "The wind blows backwards in the dark night, and the fireflies are wet." (From Strange Tales from a Lonely Studio? Its voice is thin and beautiful, like bamboo tears. "Who can see the bitterness of love, when the sleeves fall on Leng Yue." You can't help it, you are willing, and you have entered a romantic ghost fox story.

Expressway in front of me is an out-and-out modern style, but the speed of expressway is just right in line with my imagination. Later generations used to define Pu Songling's life in eight words: reading, teaching, writing books and taking part in scientific research. Many years have passed, and there are still people deeply trapped in his footprints. I bought a flat building of less than 60 square meters in the unit where I teach. The house was handed over the year before last, which is also history. The house was built in the 1980s, which is a specimen of the early teachers' dormitory. I haven't received the key yet, so it must be rusty. I imagine serial communication is tantamount to quenching thirst with plum blossoms. In my mind, "house" is an objective material existence, which is "three old houses on the farm without four walls"; Chatting is a kind of spiritual life and a detached and selfless attitude towards life. So, am I dating someone 200 years ago? Yes, it's a date. At the terminal of my trip, there is indeed a serial fairy floating.

Fortunately, she uploaded her avatar to the internet. Long hair fluttering, vividly depicting the wind situation, shallow sadness locked in the brow, like a small red lake. The building is bright. "The air is fresh, fresh as if I first knew there was such a thing as air." The character belongs to Acheng, a contemporary writer, but it is my true feelings. From the virtual network to the vivid reality, my reading fingers touched the veins of some plants. Am I pursuing Hua Xian in a serial story? Xiang Yu and Jiang Xue, or Jin Ge and Huang Ying? A beautiful face suddenly flashed through the flowers, and I clearly heard her timidly say, "How deep is the scholar's thought?" What is this? "(from" Strange Tales from a Lonely Studio Hu Sijie ") It's her! That blush, that smile, that charm are still floating slowly in front of my eyes.

The happiness of a scholar is so simple and concrete. Emotion is not far away, and there is just a coffee table in the middle. A pot of rose tea, two delicate teacups in hand. Shallow pouring and low sipping, the fragrance of her smile is stubborn between her lips and teeth, and she is reluctant to leave. Wooden window sashes, bare floors of stairs, waiters wearing cheongsam suddenly open like red lotus, and antique calligraphy and paintings collected by teahouse owners are beside them, making it even harder for you to be unconventional and elegant. "Duanyan" recites Yanquan, and "Traffic" recites Yu Pei. In the thick fragrance of tea, it's not just tea that stretches slowly, I clearly feel that distant touch. Please give me a brush, not wolf hair, I just want to express my feelings quietly. Since the noise is far away, since the dust is not born, let me change my floating name into this shallow song. Served, it is two cups of fresh Liu Quan beer. Just turn the beauty opposite into a yellow flower that can't be lost in the golden wind, and invite Bai Juyi's pipa to play an original Liaozhai folk song for me. "If you dare not bend, you will lose your soul." (From Strange Tales from a Lonely Studio Woman in Green) The girl opposite smiled, her words turned slippery and her ears shook.

The streets in Zibo are so quiet that the footsteps of pedestrians are redundant. A dog ran quietly across the square, but fortunately it wasn't a fox. Several old people sat on stone benches and became part of the city. On the table by the window in the restaurant, the girl looks like an advertisement of a merchant. A man glanced at her when crossing the street. His red T-shirt makes this summer particularly hot. A fallen petal is a fallen petal, and a serial is a serial. Liu Quan or Liu Quan, walking slowly in quiet time, I know why it is fresh and endless. I closed my eyes for a while, and then I inscribed a gold plaque of "Pu Songling's former residence". Holding the girl's hand, I wandered around the Fox Fairy Garden. I am a fallen scholar in Xu Lai, with no clothes on, no food to eat, lighting a lamp at dusk, reciting poems, and living an idyllic life that does not admire the top scholar and riches. The book is my world, and she is Yan Ruyu. Since then, tea has added fragrance, and since then, scholars have become gentlemen.

I will go back eventually. Although the noise of the world will drown out the sound of my book, the dream in a small space can penetrate the dull reality more. Maybe my farewell is for a complete return. When we had tea, we chatted by the forest in Maodian community and said "bumper harvest" in the fragrance of rice flowers. Among the farmers, the old man with white hair and beard who listened attentively was me. "Liaozhai" on paper stands tall, and Zibo girl is not old.

The body was stored on the bus home. There are few passengers, the air conditioner is not turned on, and the sun is like fire. The VCD in the car is showing the movie Ghost Story. It is said that three films have been made. The protagonist's name was taken from a serial, but the thrilling love story was a little more interesting and showy, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep. No dreams all the way.