一爹已收拾好了东西,连牙刷手帕这样的小物件也没落下。唯独那把剑,还挂在墙上,爹也许没打算把它带走。我坐在音响室,默不作声。剑是属于远方的,而爹的心在老家,爹和剑只是在一个遥远而陌生的城市发生了一次武林侠士般的邂逅。当江湖已远,爹是要回归山林的。而剑,便只有插回剑鞘,做沉睡的铁。对于我这个城管,生发这样的感慨未免显得矫情。但我是一个喜欢音乐的城管,经典乐曲就像吗啡融进了血液,我的大脑神经常常会怪异地收缩和扩张。有时会缩成一朵蒲公英,有时又会膨胀成一把大降落伞。 A father has packed things, and even small objects such as toothbrush handkerchief did not fall. Only that sword, still hanging on the wall, the father may not intend to take it away. I sat in the sound room, silent. Swords belong to the distance, and father’s heart at home, father and sword just in a distant and strange city occurred a martial arts encounter. When the arena is far, father is going back to the mountains. The sword, then only back scabbard, so sleeping iron. For me the urban management, germinal such feelings may seem hypocritical. But I’m a musician who likes music, classic music is like morphine into the blood, my brain often weirdly shrink and expand. Sometimes it shrinks into a dandelion, sometimes expanding into a big parachute.