This area of Fengcheng East Street is bustling and lively, deserted and deserted. The lively days are the market days, when people from all over the country come in with burdens and push carts, crowding the narrow street; the quiet days are the ordinary days, except for a few old faces who regularly set up stalls, and a few idle old men wandering over, squatting in front of the stalls, flipping through old books, muttering a few words about the great flood in the 16th year of the Republic of China, but in the end they did not buy, put the books down, patted their butts and left.
Fang Leng's used bookstall is under the third crooked-necked willow tree at the corner of the street. It is said to be a stall, but it is actually two door panels put together and placed on two benches. The top of the door panel is filled with books - some are new and some are old, some are complete and some have missing pages, some are serious thread-bound books and some are colorful miniature books. There was a broken wicker chair placed behind the door panel. The armrests of the wicker chair were polished and shiny, and there was a hole as big as an egg in the backrest. An old coat was used to cushion it.
It was just after noon at this time, and the autumn tiger was still very powerful. The sun shone slantly, leaking through the cracks in the willow branches and leaves, and making patches of light on the ground. Fang Leng nestled in the broken wicker chair, his head tilted against the back of the chair, his eyes narrowed into two slits, and he didn't know whether he was really asleep or pretending to be asleep. He was wearing a gray cloth gown that had been washed white, with the cuffs rolled up, revealing a lean wrist. Her hair is a bit long and hangs on her forehead, swaying when the wind blows.
"Sleepless" is a name that can be shouted loudly on this East Street.
