Monday Morning

Such a small town, very small. It’s so small that a telescope can see everything; it’s so small that the postman can leisurely look through each letter before sealing them; it’s so small that people don’t need to say hello because they always bump into each other. There is a man in the town who does the same thing every morning, changes his shoes, goes out and works. On the surface, he works as a welder on the construction site, but in fact, his real job is to dream of being a painter. He painted using cheap watercolor paints, leaving lots of white space in the sky. Like his peers in the town, he felt monotonous, trivial, and ordinary. He is a bit like a young man, ready to pursue his ideals. The man has a wife whose fat body proves that she is a dedicated housewife. The man earns money to support the family, and the wife turns the money she earns into food to support him. They understand the principle of sticking to the contract, so they rarely talk. The man's father was a lonely nobleman. His first half of life may not have been legendary, but he still left his elegance and sensibility to the next generation. Love in a small town is plain. It is called plain because there is no distance between rich and poor in this kind of love, and there is no difference in skin color. It seems that all things other than love have nothing to do with love. Just a few strokes, but until the moment of marriage, there was still no sense of the existence of the grave.