冷意顺着墙上一大排自己的名字漫过来,这是程远风的房间。谈天感觉全身的毛孔都竖了起来,墙面上,隶书的谈天,楷书的谈天,行草的谈天。这两个字拘囿在田字格里,浓而饱满的墨迹,穿梭过岁月尘埃,触目,惊心。程远风的妈妈倚门站在门外,满头白发,眉眼低垂。她的眼睛有点金鱼泡,目光像刚从冬眠中醒来。她说:“小风生病那段时间,天 Chill on the wall along the big row of his own name over, this is Cheng Yuanfeng room. On the day feeling the pores of the body are erected on the wall, lined with books, talk about the regular script, the grass chatting. These two words were arrested in Tian Zi Gerry, thick and full of ink, shuttle through the years of dust, touching, alarmed. Cheng Yuanfeng’s mother leans back to the door, with white hair and facial features. Her eyes a little goldfish bubble, eyesight just woke up from hibernation. She said: ”Xiao wind sick period of time, day