Half a Lifetime of Mist and Rain, Half a Lifetime of Falling Flowers

The rain in the south of the Yangtze River is like a lingering feeling kneaded into the bones and blood, from late spring to late autumn, from young to old. The smoke is like sorrow, clinging to the green tiles and white walls, winding around the flowing water and alleys, and has been falling for half a lifetime, but it has never really cleared up one day. Half a life is full of mist, half a lifetime is full of flowers. Everything comes under this roof. A glass of light wine lasts forever.