In the poetic and picturesque Jiangnan, it lacks the exquisite prosperity of Shanghai, the roughness and breadth of the grassland, and the purity and cleanliness of Tibet, but it is the paradise that I yearn for.
This place has been praised by many poets and poets. How many loves have been quietly performed here since ancient times? How many people are here quietly saying goodbye? How many stories are happening here?
Beside the small bridge and flowing water, there is a teahouse quietly opened here in the alley with bluestone slabs. There is an unwritten rule that you must leave a story here, because I am just a story collector, and I want to see myself in other people's stories. Maybe the people in these stories will have the same experiences and feelings as you. Come and see if there are any stories that make you laugh or cry, or laugh and cry.
I am waiting for my story by the West Lake, waiting for that person to find me here and grow old with me.
Holding a cup of fragrant tea, wait for the destined person in the lover's seat, because I will wait with you. . . . .