两扇半掩的油漆木门,黑沉如铁,时间如皱纹一样遍布其上。门上锈迹斑斑的两个铜钹,永远保持互相注视的距离,彼此倾斜着身子,有意地为老屋让出一条入口。在入口处,我们可以将一个现代的女子放进去,然后缓缓地等她从那门缝里微微探出身子,一双明媚的眸子便可在瞬间唤醒一个古镇的岁月。古镇就在一条条的老街上。一条条老街,就像时间剩下的掌纹,蜿蜒曲折之间,里三层,外三层,叠加在一起的,似乎都是时间与人世的迷 Two half-covered painted wooden doors, dark as iron, the same time as the wrinkles spread over it. Two rusty copper cymbals on the door, always looking at each other, sloping at each other, purposely giving an entrance to the house. At the entrance, we could put a modern woman in and slowly wait for her to slightly peep out of the door, a pair of bright eyes can wake up an ancient town in an instant. The town is in a strip of old streets. A strip of old streets, like the left palm of the hand patterns, twists and turns, in three, three outer layers, superimposed together, seem to be time and maniacal fans