又是冬天了,你的信翩然而至,写给我的却只有几句活:“如一幅宁静淡远的水墨画,如一首深沉含蓄的小诗。走进冬天,才觉得春太臃肿,夏多烦躁,秋过于负重;走进冬天,才懂得人生没有经历冬天的风霜雪雨永远不算完美。经历过寒冬的我,能否在春天里看你的笑容?” 坐在六楼的阳台.看阳光洒满没有绿色的街,手里握着你粉红的签页。此刻,你纸糊的风铃正拂动我的思念在晨风中叮叮铛铛,流淌成我的心情故事。 认识你很简单。两年前的晚夜班。独自坐在办公室,听着病人的小小的鼾声,捧一本书静静地渎。你来 It is winter again, and your letter goes by, but only a few words have been written to me: “As a quiet and distant ink painting, like a deep, subtle poem. Into the winter, I feel spring is too bloated, summer More irritability, autumn is overweight; Into the winter, we can understand life is not experienced winter frost and snow will never be perfect. Experienced winter, I can see your smile in the spring? ”Sitting on the balcony on the sixth floor. Look at the sun without green street, holding your pink tab. At the moment, your paper-faced wind chimes are flickering my thoughts in the morning breeze, flowing into my mood story. It’s easy to meet you. Night shift two years ago. Sitting alone in the office, listening to the patient’s little snoring, holding a book quietly ditch. You come