时光驶书列车时不时提高嗓音,时不时压低呼吸。但它始终只有一个方向,向前。像极了一个人不断重复着的状态,像极了他晃荡的人生。一只说不出自己名字的鸟落在路边的田埂上,捣鼓着笛声,啄食秋色,啄食着内心的节奏,守住掠过那一片土地的苍茫。路两边的庄稼是安静的,它们彼此以挽手或抱住的姿势匍匐前行。一步一个视线,一步一段距离,牵引我抵达某种温暖的收获。若是揪出它们最后的秘密,便能驶向一个人内心的无边旷野。 Driving a book from time to time improve the voice of the train, from time to time to suppress the breath. But it always has only one direction, forward. Like a person constantly repeating the state, like most of his sloshing life. A bird who could not speak his name landed on the fields by the roadside, whistling, flung autumnal colors, pecking at the rhythm of the heart and holding the vastness of the land passing over it. The crops on both sides of the road are quiet, and they crawl forward each other in a hand or hug. Step by step, one step at a time, pulling me to some kind of warm harvest. If you uncover their last secret, you will be able to drive toward a boundless wilderness in one’s heart.