已然是春末,月夜下的虫子聒噪着,回忆沉淀在了这时而浑浊又时而清明的世界中。天花板上的钨丝灯泡不安地摇晃着,在一番垂死挣扎后吞噬了黑暗,散发出昏暗的光。我静坐在老木椅上,或是岁月久了,木材已然腐朽,便吱嘎吱嘎叫嚣着,然而我并未在意,只是从容地捧着本书,对着微弱的光,絮语着道出那些经过加工的回忆。于是故事就这么开了头。那棵古老的橡树,伫立着,时光的影子?留过, It is already the end of the spring, moonlight buzzing insects, memories precipitated in this time cloudy and sometimes clear and bright world. The tungsten bulb on the ceiling rocked uneasily, engulfing the darkness after some dying and emitting dim light. I was seated in an old wooden chair, or as time went by, the wood was decadent, it creaked, but I did not care, but calmly holding the book, in the faint light, Processing memories. So the story goes so far. That ancient oak, standing, the shadow of time? Been left,