三五之夜,把盏翻书。维斯瓦娃·辛波斯卡的小品在明亮如注的白炽灯下安静地躺着。素纸黛字铺展开帧帧画面,唤着我踏入一片黄沙汀渚之境。海风弄波,浪涛拍岸,兀地为岸边的渔人遥遥递来一个漂流瓶。瓶中纸片上的波兰字母疯狂涂画着一个困于孤岛的人儿在死神脚下绝望的呼喊,却只字未提何时、何处、何人。在诡谲的气氛和寥廓的苍穹所构建的宏大背景下,不安情绪 Thirty-five night, the light of the book. Wislava Siposca’s piece lay quietly under a brightly-lit incandescent lamp. Su Zhibi word shop opened frame frame screen, call me into a Huang Sha Ting homeland. Sea breeze waves, the waves beat the shore, Wu Wu for the shore fisherman handed a drifting bottle. The Polish letters on the paper in the bottle were crazy to paint the cry of desperation at the foot of an innocent man trapped in an island without mentioning when, where and who. In the ambiguous atmosphere and the boundless sky of the sky built by the grand background, uneasy emotions