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路,走了44年;方向,却不止一边;行装,偏爱黑色;内心,却仍是此间少年。1983年,黄昏中的北京,迷蒙、色彩饱满,像是香山一片红透的枫叶。起了风,远远地送来电报大楼的钟声。一个少年立在窗边,听着那被风声拉长的旋律,意醉神迷。报时钟声响完,少年奔出家门,冲向五道口,秋风把他的领口吹开来,是直沁心脾的秋高气爽。多少年后,高晓松伫立在洛杉矶的秋风里回忆北京长大的那个风中少年,突然起了一阵乡愁。那是他眼里最美好的80年代,那时的他是初中生,心中有他自己的“远大前程”。
Road, gone 44 years; direction, but more than one side; luggage, preference for black; inner, but still young. In 1983, Beijing in the twilight, mingling, full of color, like Hongshan a red maple leaf. Windy, far to the telegraph building bells. A juvenile stood by the window, listening to the melody that was elongated by the wind, meaning ecstatic. After the clock sound finished, young men ran out of the house, rushed to Wudaokou, the autumn wind blew his collar, is Qinqin heart of the autumn. How many years later, Gao Xiaosong stood in the autumn wind in Los Angeles in the wind that grew up in Beijing recalled teenager, suddenly nostalgia for a while. That was the best 80s in his eyes, when he was a junior high school student with his own “Great Future.”