你的祝福一半甜的/一半苦的/就像我手中冷掉的可可/最最叫人残念的总是未完成的/我只能唱着一半的歌……不知为什么,我的十七岁总是处在一片雾蒙的冷色调里,甚至如今回忆起来,依然觉得它暗淡遥远,只剩下模糊不清的细节了。我们都曾在文字里描绘过不同的十七岁,然而它一落出纸面,变得可及可触的时候,所有憧憬与描绘都变得不再引人入胜,反而蒙上了一层生活的灰尘。 Your blessing is half sweet / half bitter / like the cold cocoons in my hands / the most annoying ones are always unfinished / I can only sing half the song ... I do not know why, my seventeen Always in a foggy cold tone, and even now recalled, still feel it bleak, leaving only vague details. All of us have painted a different 17-year-old in the writing, but as soon as it fell out of paper and became reachable, all the visions and portraits became less attractive, but cast a layer of life dust.