谁的天空/雁过留痕/谁的细雨/缠绵悱恻/谁的梦/星星又点点……我喜欢天空。因为它的深邃,似乎它也有一双洞悉世间的明眸,让你既仰望它,又畏惧它。而它的湛蓝,却像孩子般清澈、单纯,清纯到不带一丝瑕疵。于是我充满希望地抬头仰望它,然而望到的却是在一栋栋高楼中勉强挤出一条缝的它,一脸的落寞,一脸的茫然。原来,它也和我一样,无奈,落寞。我不喜欢天空了。 Whose sky / wild geese have left / who’s drizzle / lingering 悱恻 / who’s dream / stars and little ... ... I like the sky. Because of its depth, it seems that it also has a pair of insights into the world’s acolytes that will allow you to look at it and fear it. And its blue color is as clear and simple as a child, and it is pure and pure without a trace of embarrassment. So I hopefully look up at it, but what I hope is a stubborn squeeze out of a building in a tall building, a look of desolate, a look of loss. It turned out that it was just like me, helpless and lonely. I don’t like the sky.