你打电话来的时候,我正走在初夏暮色未沉的街道上,我听着电话,急切地穿过冗长而狭窄的街,喧嚣的声浪拍打过来,电话那头你的声音变得模糊而不连贯。我凝神努力听清,望着拥挤的街微蹙起眉,叹了一口气,又不自觉地加快了脚步。“以前总爱问为什么,现在终于明白了书上的那句话,人似乎,总是看不懂自己的悲剧。”你的声音不重,我却听得那样真切;你的声音没变,依然是慵懒的,却是那样让我难过,让我心酸。我不知道这些年 As you called, I was walking down the dusk of the early summer. I listened to the phone, eagerly crossing the long, narrow streets, hitting the noise of the noise, your voice blurred at the other end of the line Incoherent. I struggled to find out, looking at the crowded street slightly greeted, sighed, and unconsciously to speed up the pace. “Before I always ask why, and now finally understand that sentence on the book, people seem to always do not understand their own tragedy.” "Your voice is not heavy, but I heard so real; your voice has not changed , Still lazy, but it is so sad to me, let me sad. I do not know these years