十六七岁是个爱做梦的季节。飘落的雨,天边的云都在述说着关于你、关于我的梦。2008年,我十七岁。政治课,小 E 摆出了个类柯南的姿势。我问为什么,他说,我在想我能不能到×学校去读心理系。“加油咯!”我说。但是他靠下我的左肩,轻语:“不可能了,考不上的。”或者,真得承认,很多时候梦只能是梦。但是,我们所要铭记的恰恰就是梦绽放的那个瞬间,因为它着实让人看迷。 Sixteen or seven years is a season of love dreaming. Falling rain, the sky clouds are talking about you, about my dream. In 2008, I was seventeen years old. Political class, small E posed a class of Conan position. I asked why, he said, I was wondering if I could go to × school to go to psychology department. “Come on! ” I said. But he leaned down on my left shoulder and whispered: “Impossible, unattainable.” Or, indeed, admits that in many cases a dream can only be a dream. However, the moment we want to keep in mind is precisely the moment when the dream bloom, because it really makes people obsessed.