脱掉那袭青衫,他的骨骼在月下窸窸窣窣作响。在这里住了大半辈子的异乡人临走时留下灯光和良知,还有遗言和一些符号。走过前朝,手心握不住半点红尘。我语无伦次,如同打碎的陶瓷。空空荡荡,风一吹就响个不停。属于我的小镇单薄而陈旧,像母亲 Take off that patched shirt, his bones under the moonlight 窸 窸 窣 窣 sound. Here strangers who lived for most of their lives leave light and conscience before leaving, as well as the last words and some symbols. Walked through the front, palm can not hold the slightest bitch. I’m incoherent, like broken ceramics. Empty, the wind blew on non-stop. My little town is thin and old, like a mother