“文学不是女人的事,你们没有天赋去作诗。”骚塞在回信上这样写道。字里行间充斥着这一行端凝俊秀的圆体字,心中像有千万蚂蚁在啃噬着,一点点剥蚀着她炽热的心脏。她不由自主地将手攥成拳,死命地捏着。指甲嵌进了掌心竟然一点痛觉也没有,直到关节发白,她才缓缓松手。眼睛晶亮的,像罩着一层玻璃似的东西,这东西无形地将那一行字无限放大,她 “Literature is not a woman, you do not have the talent to write poems.” The lines between the line filled with the condensate line Junxiu round the body, the heart like a million insects bite, a little bit eroded her hot heart. She could not help but hand-clenched into a fist, pinched desperately. Nails embedded in the palm even a little bit of pain did not until the joints whitish, she slowly let go. Eyes bright, like a glass covered with something like this thing invisible that line infinite zoom, her