这是朋友刚死的时候。漫长的旅途犹如一条轨道,这是当局的铁器。车厢在行进,窗玻璃追赶着画面。只是颔骨被打碎了,只是目光被审讯的冰冷僵冻,只是信件和诗歌赤裸着,任人嘲笑。抵达时是冬天,人地生疏。树木修剪过了,二月好冷。上方有扇窗。我没到过那儿,只是在夜里感觉到什么叫做近,在白天体会到什么东西可以像距离一样随身携带。我一步步地靠近齐街沿高的窗子,问鸟儿哪来的这般坚强。赤足二月,我不知道。脚趾比飞翔时垂得更低,我关上 This is when my friend just died. The long journey is like a track, which is the ironworks of the authorities. The car is moving, the window glass to catch up with the picture. Only the tarsal bone was broken, but the cold freeze frozen eyes, just letters and poetry naked, anybody ridiculed. Arrived in winter, stranger. The trees are trimmed and February is so cold There is a fan window above I have not been there, I just feel at night what is near, in the daytime experience of what can carry as distance. I step by step along the high street Qi Street, ask the birds where to come so strong. Barefoot February, I do not know. The toe is lowered lower than when flying, I close