一个人住的房子,很冷,真的很冷。没有人声,没有光亮,仿佛人世间的一切喧嚣都在瞬间远离,远离。是它们离得太远了吧,周围竟然静得没有一丁点声音。偶尔亮了一下的车灯,渐渐暗淡下去的万家灯火成了这夜里唯一的风景。一盏,两盏……暗夜里的灯光渐渐灭去。人们睡了,带着疲惫和满足静静地睡了,而我,我无比荒凉的旅行才刚刚开始。一个人握着笔,很勇敢,但更多的是诚实。 The house where one lived was very cold and really cold. There is no human voice, no light, as if all human beings in the world are far away and away. It was because they were too far away, and there was not a single sound around. Occasionally, the lights flashed off, and the waning lights were the only scene in the night. One night, two nights...the dark nightlights are gradually disappearing. People slept and slept with fatigue and contentment, and I, my incomparable travel, had only just begun. A person holding a pen is brave, but more is honest.