I met a roommate in college. She is the most literary girl I have ever seen, not one of them. Her writing style does not mean the kind of writing that can be produced by reading a book and taking a photo. She is a writer with her own personality. She has a calm personality and unique ideas. I have never been exposed to this kind of literature and art before, and the first contact brought me a very different freshness. I feel that her literature and art are actually related to the people and things she contacts and the books she has read and experienced, so literature and art are actually a relative concept. Some people are sometimes literary, while others are always literary.

The first time I realized that she was a literary woman, it was on a very ordinary morning. I woke up early that day, about half past five in the morning. Half asleep, I saw a faint light in the gauze curtain. I poked my head out and looked at it. I was surprised to find that she was sitting by the bed, with a book in her hand, reading with relish. A small desk lamp at hand gives off a dim light, and her expression is hidden in the shadow. Although she can't see clearly, she can feel it. I asked her in a hoarse voice (there are many roommates sleeping like pigs in the dormitory): "Why did you wake up so early?" She seemed to be startled, leaned out and smiled at me, and said in a dumb voice, "Did my biological clock wake you?" I have never formed a biological clock so early, but I have developed a biological clock that goes to bed early. And I never had the habit of reading early, and then we started reading early together. A deeper understanding of her literary character is that we go to the library together. In fact, I am also a person who likes reading very much. Except for romantic novels and words that I find very melodramatic, other books are generally acceptable. However, I really don't have the courage to read the books she read. She likes poetry, prose and Shengxiao Mo-style love. I am a clown, and her image as a literary woman is really far from perfect. Once she was watching a speech in the library, she cried, tears streaming down her face, scaring me to read next to her. Later, when I asked her, she was embarrassed to tell me that she was moved by a sentence in the speech and told me that she was very literary.

Why is she so literary? I once asked her, and she said she didn't know, and no one had told her that she was very literary before. Her literature and art can be described in very literary terms: she is like a girl living in a boudoir. Through the small window in the attic, you can see the girl by the window, holding a book in her hand, the hot tea at hand rising clouds, the sun shining on her shoulders and eyebrows, and suddenly you can feel the silence of the years.