奘莼莼
It was a rainy night in spring. I lied in bed sleepless, listening to the rain dropping down softly on the roof. It was just like the music. I was deeply moved by it. Rain in spring is not like rain in autumn or summer. It drizzles sometimes, moistening the thirsty fields lightly and selflessly. I apparently feel the fresh breeze together with raindrops blowing against my window.
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