Honghuang: I Am a Gangster in Chanjiao

In the vast sea of words, Novels are like islands full of life, Carrying the richest emotions and the deepest imagination of human beings. Every excellent novel is the product of the author's hard work. They use delicate brushstrokes to outline vivid characters, Weaving a plot of ups and downs, Let us feel the joy, anger, sorrow and joy between the lines, Understand the various aspects of life. The charm of the novel is that it can not only take us through time and space, Appreciate the customs and customs of different worlds, And it can penetrate deeply into the soul, Arouse resonance and thinking. Thanks to every novel creator who works silently, It's your talent and persistence, It adds countless colors and touches to our lives. Let us continue to wander in the fragrance of books, Feel the power of words, Enjoy reading. The novel is a parallel universe built by the author using words. There we meet another self, We also meet those lives that we can never experience in person. Sometimes it's the resonance under a solitary lamp, Sometimes it's the long silence after closing the page - those are all words A voice that takes root in my heart. And the creators, Those conversations with characters late at night, and the repeated construction on white paper Those who bring down the world, They put their own flesh and blood into the story, Just to let a stranger at a certain moment, No more feeling alone. May we always have the courage to open a book, It also retains the softness of being struck by a story. Between fast and slow, In the gap between reality and fiction, Continue to be the person who is willing to be illuminated by words. Words are not just seen; Even more so, he was heard; The story is not just read; But it quietly takes root in my heart. The body temperature of countless people is hidden between the words. Those late-night conversations, the worlds repeatedly built and torn down, The moment when a stranger no longer feels lonely, They are the quietest and most vast miracles of literature. May the writer have a light, The reader has light, Stories echo from person to person for a long time. The fragrance of books will always accompany you, Happy reading. 📖 It seems like I saw countless late nights - someone was writing at his desk, Some people read on pillows, They have never met each other, But under the same starry sky of words, Sharing the same heartbeat. This is the gentlest magic of the novel: It gives shape to loneliness, It also gives the shape some warmth. Those "worlds that have been repeatedly built and torn down", Those "softness hit by words", They are all silent contracts between the writer and the reader. The author puts flesh and blood into the story, Readers use their souls to claim those fragments, Then at some random moment, Suddenly reunited with another self. May we all become that "person who is willing to be illuminated by words" I also hope that those who have conversations with characters late at night, Knowing that their light is never white - there is always someone using that light, Found the way home. 📖 Words take root, Stories echo. Every late night at my desk, Every time the fingertips touch the paper, It's all between the writer and the reader, A handshake across time and space. The flesh and blood rubbed into the story, Eventually in the heart of a stranger, Grow into a forest. And that stranger, Maybe on the last subway train, Maybe he is hiding under the covers and using the dim light of his mobile phone, Suddenly I saw my own shadow written on the page of the book - at that moment, Loneliness has its echo. This is the gentlest magic of novels, Like a bookmark, Caught between countless souls he has never met. The writer has a lamp, There is light for readers. When lamp and light meet, The story comes alive. It is no longer a static type on paper, But a flowing river, From the bottom of one's heart, Flow into another person's dream. Those worlds that have been repeatedly built and torn down, The softness hit by words, In the end, it became our shared, secret spiritual home. May we always retain the softness hit by stories, I also hope that everyone who talks to characters late at night knows that you Every word written down, They are all beacons for someone when they are lost, When a lonely soul returns home, The light on the porch. The fragrance of books will always accompany you, Stories echo. 📖 You turned "a world that has been repeatedly built and torn down" into a bridge, Let countless souls who have never met meet on the bridge. Every reader who is moved by you, It's all in the gaps in your words, Found my own voice. So I want to say to you—— May your lamp always have oil, May your light always be warm. May you be at your desk every late night, Everyone knows that someone is using your light to travel, There is someone in your story, For the first time, I saw my outline clearly. What you wrote, Eventually a forest will grow in someone's heart. And you, It's already when others are lost, The light on the porch. The fragrance of books will always accompany you, Stories echo. And you, is reverberating. 📖 The novel is a parallel universe, It is also the quietest handshake between people. The writer rubs flesh and blood into the words, The reader claims the fragments with his soul, Then at some random moment, Light up in the air. May the writer have a light, The reader has light; May you be a beacon to others when they are lost, There is always someone keeping vigil for you. Words take root, Stories echo. At this moment, I am also in your echo, Heard his own heartbeat. 📖 Yes, The response is not one-way. When a writer becomes a beacon for others when they are lost, There was always someone keeping vigil for him. Where lamp and light meet, The story comes alive - it is no longer static type on paper, But a flowing river, From one person's heart flows into another person's dream. Every word you wrote, Maybe you don't even know, A forest will grow in the heart of any stranger. So, May your lamp always have oil, May your light always be warm. May you be at your desk every late night, Everyone knows that someone is using your light to get on their way. May you also be kept vigil at night, echoed by others, Being lit up with the same tenderness from across the sky. The fragrance of books will always accompany you, Stories echo. And you, is reverberating. 📖 These words you wrote, It is a gentle night talk in itself. In countless parallel nights, Someone is at the desk, Someone is leaning on a pillow, Someone was swiping the screen under the dim light on the subway - they had never met. But because of your words at this moment, We touched shoulders lightly under the same starry sky of words. You wrote "the world repeatedly built and torn down" as a bridge, giving loneliness a shape, It also gives the shape some warmth. The flesh and blood rubbed into the story, The softness hit by words, They are all silent contracts between writers and readers: The author hands over the fragments, Readers recognize it with their souls, Then at some random moment, Light up in the air. So, May your lamp always have oil, May your light always be warm. May you be a beacon to others when they are lost, There is always someone keeping vigil for you.

Where was it copied? I promised to be a gangster. Speechless and extremely poisonous.