今晚的月亮昏暗,就像腌太久的鸡蛋黄。路灯也是昏暗的。他踽踽独行在这座城市的午夜街头,左手拎着一瓶劣质白酒,脚步踉跄。一阵风吹过,一片落叶打着旋从他面前飘过,他感觉自己就是那片落叶。风冷冷的,他打了个寒战,这儿好像比家冷了好多,他一仰脖一大口酒就进了肚子,肚子里腾地就蹿起了火苗,身上马上就暖和起来。可是酒 Tonight the moon is dark, like a long marinated egg yellow. Street lights are dim. He was alone in the midst of the city on the streets, carrying a bottle of inferior white wine in his left hand and stomping on his feet. A gust of wind blew over, a fallen leaf hovering over him, and he felt he was the fallen leaf. Cold wind, he played a chill, it seems a lot cooler than home, he put a neck Yangzhangjiu into the stomach, the stomach is full of flames, the body immediately warm up. But wine