当秋天开始下雨,透明的窗玻璃上,布满斜的雨痕,冰冷得像悬崖最顶端的石,一次次消磨窗玻璃关于夏天的记忆。蝈蝈的叫声低了下去,慢了下去,暗了下去,最终只剩下间隔的音符悬挂在落灰的窗框上,颤颤悠悠,像被蜘蛛丝吊着,随时都有被扯断的可能。哽咽的蝈蝈声继续叫着,撑着凄凉的伞走在生命的最后一段路上,将走出我的视线,回归那个原始的夏天。秋天的灯光恍惚,雾也很 When it began to rain in the autumn, the transparent window glass was covered with diagonal rain marks. The ice was cold like the topmost stone on the cliff, and the memory of the window glass was erased again and again. The cicadas’ cry slowed down, slowed down, and went dark. Eventually only the notes of the interval were hung from the grayed-out window frame, trembling, like being dragged by a spider’s silk, and being torn at any time. Possible. The groaning groan continued to scream, holding the bleak umbrella on the last stretch of life, and he would come out of my sight and return to the original summer. The lights of the autumn are so cloudy and the fog is very