This was at night and I shut everything out during the day. I, alone, at night.

I think I am growing to love this house. Oh, "I want to develop a relationship with him." When I said this, the wind came from the window, bringing rain and coolness. Just like when I was a child, before the heavy rain came, I would always sit on the balcony, bare legs, the wind blowing up my white skirt, which made it look crisp and indulgent against my skin that was darkened by summer.

The clouds on the edge of the rain were now pressing down blackly. When the rain was about to come, the sun gave them a golden edge.

This house also seems to have complex layers: one third of dusk, one third of early morning, and one third of noon.

At this moment, I suddenly felt attached to it. Listen to the dogs barking outside.

What is Siye doing now? Under heavy clouds.

Is the rain falling quietly and tilting in the sky?

Just now I suddenly wanted to find a pen. The writing desk, bookcase, and all places where pens can be placed are all white, clearly visible, and there is no trace of the pen. Except of course the books, which are always colorful, noisy and intoxicating.

Without a pen, I couldn’t make marks on the book, so I had to read it over and over again to feel the heart-warming expressions and narratives. It has changed my bad habit of marking good paragraphs and rushing to the next paragraph. This is really a misfortune of reading. God knows when I will read again. Maybe it is a misfortune of life. I always rush to see a scenery, chase the next height and ignore the beauty around me.

Maybe when you get older, you will want to come back, to read those twists and turns and thrilling plots, and think about the dawn on the way in a rainy night——, this is how feelings come, you and Get along day and night, and he gradually transforms from a featureless and lifeless workplace into one filled with your personality and becomes your close friend.

In the old house, pens are everywhere.

In that house, my bed, my table, my chair, and my computer were lined up nervously, and they watched their owner move around in the small space.

The lights are light pink and purple, and a flower blooms silently.

The bookshelf is made of heavy peach wood.

In that old house, I walked around, thought, and wrote.

In summer, the room is always dark and cool, that's the atmosphere of the earth.

I never feel hot, I always feel comfortable, walk easily, and sometimes hum some songs.

The table is blooming with flowers, roses, calla lilies and carnations. On a refreshing morning, I rode my bicycle to a nearby square to watch people. I passed by a newly opened breakfast shop. The lady boss looked diligent.

Sometimes, he will feel melancholy, but his gloominess makes people happy. The gloom comes from the outdoors. There are towering trees at the top, and the green lilacs at the bottom fill the window like green mist. He never skimps on his fragrance. In such an atmosphere, I don't know what else to do besides writing and reading.

The days are on our shoulders, and everyone can replace them.

Including enduring loneliness.

Including tolerance of illness.

Including enjoying peace and happiness.

If I could start life over again at the starting line, this time there would be no trace to follow.

Close the door, close the windows, and shut out the day.

Read and write.