晚风静止,岁月不前。在每一个沉凉如水的夜里,我都会无法遏制地忆起那个以逝去的每分每秒养育我的故乡——不同于空间概念上的故乡,那是存在于时间里的,不再回来的故乡。我如刚进行过一场斋戒的信徒,把深夜里的所有声音都看作是真诚的,真诚地履行着它们自由散漫的义务,像风铃,像庆典,像清晨苏醒的空虚。我还在摇篮里的时候,便是在爷爷清凉却不见阴郁的老房子里度过的。爷爷家的老房子,有厚重的木门和高高 Breeze still, before the age. In every cold night, I can not stop to recall the homelessness that perpetuates my daily life - unlike the conceptual hometown of space, which exists in time and never returns home. I have just carried out a fasting follower and regarded all the sounds in the middle of the night as sincere and sincerely fulfilled their free and unwilling obligations like wind chimes and celebrations like the emptiness of an early morning wake. When I was still in my cradle, I spent my grandfather cool but not gloomy old house. Grandfather’s old house, thick wood doors and high