微醺的阳光透过薄薄的窗纱,在消毒水弥漫的病房投下如刀剑的影子,犹如床榻上的乔布斯。那个曾如刀剑般坚硬如铁的男子。现在,他虚弱地微笑,刀刻的皱纹间露出了孩子般的期待。我拿起一旁仓促准备的毛笔,应乔布斯的要求,为他写了一首他最喜欢的中国古词。“少年听雨歌楼上,红烛昏罗 Micro-sunshine through a thin window screening, in the ward disinfectant water cast like a sword’s shadow, like a bed of Jobs. The man who was as hard as iron as a sword. Now, he smiled weakly, knifed wrinkles revealing childish expectations. I picked up the hurriedly prepared brush and, at Jobs’ request, wrote one of his favorite ancient Chinese words. ”Juvenile rain rain upstairs, red candle faint Luo