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我是个常做梦的孩子啊。在那些长长短短、深深浅浅的梦里,或奔或走,或驻或行,曲折也好,平淡也罢,总在那一睡一醒间上演一幕幕悲欢离合。那些交织的爱恨情仇,那些匪夷所思的片断,在睁开双眼的刹那间,化成了云烟,再也寻它不得。梦中陪你走过的人,也许只留下一个模糊的影像。梦里的慷慨激昂,梦里的和颜悦色,梦里的声嘶力竭,梦里的轻声细语……明明是那么真实,但只有醒着的时候,才是那个安静的自己。可究竟那所谓的梦,是不是真实?我们所谓的人生,又何尝不是一场梦?
I am a child who always dreams. In those long, short, deep and shallow dreams, or go or go, or in or line, twists and turns, plain or worth mentioning, always in the wake of that staged scenes of joys and sorrows. Those intertwined love and hate, those incredible pieces, opened his eyes in an instant, turned into a cloud of smoke, no longer find it. People who walk with you in the dream may only leave a vague image. Impassioned in the dream, sweet and pleasant in the dream, hoarse in the dream, soft whisper in the dream ... obviously so real, but only when awake, is that quiet himself. Is it true that so-called dream is true? What we mean by life is not a dream?