年少时的好梦,不是因为添加了回忆的温度和夸张的描述才显得那么好,而是因为真实的生活需有一支笔去细写,才能一直去铭刻。独处的时候,我给自己写信,珍而重之地摊开稿纸,把墨水汲取到温暖的饱足。笔尖触及黑格子划过缱绻的夏风,风晃荡着摇下一杯火烧云的艳影。文字清瘦的笔画向岁月敞开胸怀,然后就有了一场盛夏——一个所有回忆的入口。这才忽然察觉,稚嫩的年少,所有优与喜,展眉与戚然,都在不知觉间幻变。初三的时候,有着日复一日的考试,中午要穿过长 The dream of a young man was not so good because of the added temperature and the exaggerated description of memories, but because the real life required a pen to be inscribed in order to be inscribed. When I was alone, I wrote to myself, treasured papers, and smudged my ink. Nib touches the black plaid across the stagnant summer wind, shaking the rock shake the next cloud of clouds burning Yan Ying. The lean-stroke strokes open to the years, and there’s a midsummer - an entrance to all memories. Suddenly aware of this, immature young, all gifted and pleased, show eyebrows and Qi Ran, are imperceptibly illusion. The third day, there are day after day exam, noon to wear long