如果我在四月的故乡成都,该是看桃花的日子,或者去到郊外,坐在农家雪白的梨树下喝茶,风过留痕,花瓣落进杯中。而今这个和沈阳纬度相当的城市,在四月中旬还下了场雪,我给国内的朋友打电话:这个城市不近人情,我那些新发芽的百合花被雪埋了。朋友不着边际地说:我的车正在一座很长的桥上跑,真希望这深更半夜桥上塞车,就可以有理由停下来,在桥上听音乐。四月是个妄想的季节。 If I was in April’s hometown of Chengdu, it was a day to see the peach, or go to the suburbs and sit under the snowy pear tree in the farmer’s house to drink tea. There was a trace of wind leaving the petals falling into the cup. Today, a city with an equivalent latitude to Shenyang, with snow still falling in mid-April, I called domestic friends: the city is not near human, and my new budding lilies are buried in the snow. My friend goes on to say: My car is running on a very long bridge. I really hope this is a traffic jam on the bridge at midnight. I can reason to stop and listen to music on the bridge. April is a delusional season.