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近来与朋友聊起日记,想想那是我二十多年前的热衷,有时候一天鬼画符上好几页,一股脑儿泼粪式地,宣泄完毕便束之高阁,日记里的哀乐从此进入冬眠。朋友肯定地说,日记是我写作的源起。也许吧,我无以反驳。内里,我从未将那些日记与写作挂上勾。倒不在写作有多神圣,而是发泄与写作,实在有些径庭之遥。一大摞日记,几经辗转,一直携带身边,十多年来却一次也没有翻动,无论我拥有大片大片的静谧,无论我如何深陷绝望,无论我怎样决心四
Recently chatted with friends diary, think it was my passion 20 years ago, and sometimes the day ghost sign on several pages, a sudden drop of manure, catharsis will be put away, the sadness in the diary from hibernation. Friend affirmed that diary is the source of my writing. Maybe, I can not refute. Inside, I have never linked those diaries to writing. It is a bit far away from writing how sacred, but venting and writing. A large pile of diaries, after being removed, has been carrying around for a period of more than 10 years but also did not flip, no matter I have a large tracts of quiet, no matter how deep despair I am, no matter how I determined four