我一直知道,诗歌里的自己,写满了忧郁。是的,骨子里的忧郁。他们都这么说。也许是孤寂。两年前是这样,两年之后,诗歌里的自己仍然。然而,我无能为力。我喜欢诗歌,这是确定的。它让我迷恋。我想写好它们。写着的时候,我也最像我自己。那些纯粹辽阔,也都最最靠近我的灵魂,在每个不眠的夜 I always knew that my own poetry, filled with melancholy. Yes, melancholy bones. They all say so. May be lonely. Two years ago this was the case. Two years later, I myself still remained in poetry. However, I can do nothing. I like poetry, it is ok. It fascinates me. I want to write them. When I was writing, I was most like myself. Those who are purely vast, are also closest to my soul, in every sleepless night