这是一次有关时间的远行,远到我可以看见自己小时候的身影。尘土喧嚣,我和偏瘫的父亲在空旷的路上行走,或许是中秋,或许是另外一个什么节气。刚开始,父亲拉着板车,我坐上去,土路坑坑洼洼,需要很大力气才能爬上一道坡。接着换我,父亲一手扶着车帮坐上去,说,慢点,不急。是啊,慢点,不急。毕竟还在这个世界上活着,活着就有所谓的希望。至于希望是什么,有多么具体或渺茫,都无关紧要。这也是我一次次提醒自己的话语,打从写作以来,我习惯于走走停停。有时是写得太过顺溜,语言丝绸般华丽,但言过其实,就想糙一点,粗粝一点,以 This is a long journey about time, as far as I can see my childhood figure. Dust noise, my paralyzed father walking in the open road, perhaps the Mid-Autumn Festival, perhaps another is what solar term. At first, my father pulled the scooter, I sat up, dirt road potholes, it takes a lot of effort to climb a slope. Then for me, his father took the car to help sit up and said, slow, not urgent. Yeah, slow, not in a hurry After all, still living in this world, there is the so-called hope of living. It does not matter as to what is hope, how much it is, or how little it is. This is also my reminder of my own words again and again. Since writing, I have been accustomed to stop and go. Sometimes written too smooth, the language silk gorgeous, but exaggerated, wanted a little rough, a little rough to