That place called Tonghua Lane, together with the beautiful girl who fell from the tall building that year, can no longer be mentioned.
Many years later, a reporter asked Liang Xiao: "Why do you never talk about your hometown?"
She tried to dig out the fragments of Tonghua Lane from the depths of her memory, the fragrance of wine and flowers, the light and shadow and the boy, the wall and the wild cat. It was foggy and couldn't see clearly.
[I don't want to talk about it.
The reporter was a little irritable and self-righteous [Mark Twain never talked about his hometown with others, because he said that once he could not talk about his hometown, it would no longer be his hometown. Literati's feelings are interlinked. Is it because of this?
It's so noisy, it feels like I'm back in those days in Tonghua Lane.
She no longer wore a programmed smile and said, "It is a city where tired birds roost, but it is not my residence. When I came to Shanghai, I was not a child looking into the distance, but a cowardly girl escaping from a devil's cave."
In the alley full of tung flowers, two people are buried [one is me, the other is me too.
Intention: There is someone in this world who loves you well