一写作本摊在桌上好久了,笔,却不知何时从手里滑落,没了去向。注视着自己的写作本,想把它看透,好久好久,才发现真的不容易。纸上的点越来越多却不成文字,呵,原来,是自己不喜欢作文啊。可为什么还要逼自己陪着它?环视清冷的房间,终于相信,房间里只有自己,不禁浑身发冷,才明白— A writing stall on the table for a long time, pen, but do not know when to slip from their hands, gone. Looking at his own writing, want to see it through, long time, only to find it really is not easy. More and more points on the paper is not a text, uh, the original is that I do not like essay ah. Why can we force myself to accompany it? Looking around the cold room, I finally believed that the room only myself, can not help but get cold, only to understand -