I am a person who neglects to run a broker, but one day when I went out on the street, I was surprised to find that an ancient place in town had been razed to the ground. Those nice-named, bookish and antique alleys turned her pale and worn-out face helplessly to the summer sun.

(2) I have been to and inquired about all the alleys in the light rain. These three or four-meter-wide alleys crisscross like a net, quiet and deep as a clear valley. That's blue bricks or tiles, that's white walls, that's black old wooden doors full of vicissitudes of life, that's mottled dark green moss like gold coins, and that's rare dog tail grass swaying on the wall of the yard in the monsoon rain of many dynasties.

What about the old peach tree that once stood out in the yard and had a bright pink face? What about the apricot tree that once attracted the attention of countless children and was covered with yellow fruits in summer?

What about the dense small green bricks on the walls of alleys that are neatly arranged and clearly textured like library books? Touching them, I used to think that if this Qin brick Hanwa has a memory, I'm afraid it will tell some vivid and complicated past personnel, and just take out one, even if it is defective, it will be full of Tang poetry and Song poetry!

After all, this small town is an ancient city with a history of more than 2,000 years. On the night with or without the moon but full of stars, walking on the stone road in the alley is easy to walk into thousands of years of history and approach the long years.