The rain in Jiangnan is like smoke.
People in Jiangnan are like fog.
The daughter of Jiangnan is as warm as water.
Holding an oil-paper umbrella, stepping on the bluestones covered with emerald green moss, the sound of creaking clogs can be heard from the alley.
There is a creek here, a high courtyard here, and the roof ridge here is arched, bending out of the unique curvature of Jiangnan.
This is Jiangnan!
PS: Something happened at home, so I missed the schedule. I sighed with regret~~
Intention: