有时,喜欢一个人静静地思考,抑或独处一隅,读一本好书。想那风云变幻的历史,一座城的街头,那些与我们有交集的抑或素不相识的人与命运,便会有一种写文的冲动。让白纸黑字倾听我的心绪,让鼻尖伴随思绪流淌出一种叫做文字的东西,静谧在纸上,却又仿佛在鲜活地跃动着,永不停息。 Sometimes, like a person quietly thinking, or alone, reading a good book. Think of the ever-changing history, the streets of a city, the people and destinies with whom we have common or unknown, there is an impulse to write. Let white black and white listen to my feelings, let the tip of the nose with thoughts flowed out of something called the text, quiet on the paper, but as if alive vividly, never stop.