Moonlight prose scattered all over the place

The sunset dispersed, the moonlight scattered all over the floor, lanterns hung in the mirror on the bluestone floor, and the blue tiles in the corner and the black wooden doors on both sides were trampled to pieces by the lantern watchers who rushed to the sand factory.

On the fifteenth night of the first month, willows sprout on the moon. Marsh Street, like a flowing river, I use moonlight as an embryo. I sketched out a few plain shops and neatly arranged wooden doors in my mind, put them in the kiln of memory for many years, and finally settled in a corner, worried about them, and buried them in the vicissitudes of life. When I wrote it, the lantern under the eaves had predicted that the temperature of candlelight would be very hot and the evening in early spring would be very cold. The men and women in the shadow were also looking forward to finding the familiar footsteps at this time last year.

The rain touched the memory again, holding a flower umbrella and walking slowly on the bluestone board. The mottled blue bricks and tiles on the walls on both sides are infiltrated by rain, which is more intense and emotional. That feeling has been suppressed for thousands of years, making people who come to the market want to stop. I inquired about the ancient city wall across the river. At that time, the nostalgic feelings of the noisy Marsh Street said that before she left, she knelt in front of every relative and refused to leave for a long time.

On the blue and white porcelain walls burned in Ming and Qing Dynasties, the flowing charm of Mashi Street is gone. As time goes by, people's memories are faded by reality, pieces of blue bricks peel off from their memories, and black wooden doors slowly disappear from their dreams. The former' Ma Shi Street' is getting farther and farther away, but people's thoughts are getting stronger and stronger. Suddenly one day, people found her in the painter's pen, and the hotel owner moved her to the wall of the hall. Then he pointed to a place in the painting and said, this hotel is my hotel, and people can't remember it. Mashi Old Street has become a legend.

Twilight is no longer a black charm, but it will not rot no matter how many years it has been buried, and there are scattered broken bricks. I want to ignite my yearning feelings with fragmentary memories, tear off the brilliance of Mashi Street on the wall, burn a kiln of celadon fragments with my own hands, repair the injured place, let the charm of blue ink flow, and let the seal of Song Li in the Ming and Qing Dynasties become the foreshadowing of the future, which will be presented in The Continuation of Mashi Street.