大哥,你的摊子就在我住所楼下的对面。你,一个扳手不离手,拧紧每一个清晨和黄昏;你,一块冷补胶有如魔术师的手帕,倏忽间粘合了漏气的轮胎和生活。你,总是半跪在车轮前,把三百六十五个日子,全拴在轮胎上。有多少烂掉的轮胎,就有多少烂掉的生活。你修补一只只轮胎、一双双脚,修复速度和力量,期冀人们追赶生活的节奏。而你自己呢?大哥,昨夜萧杀秋风刮了一夜,清晨,你 Brother, your stall on the opposite side of my residence downstairs. You, a wrench do not leave, tighten every morning and evening; you, a cold glue like a magician’s handkerchief, 倏 suddenly between the adhesion of a flat tire and life. You, always half kneeling in front of the wheel, all three hundred and sixty-five days, all tied to the tire. How many rotten tires, how many rotten lives. You repair a tire, a pair of feet, repair speed and strength, expect people to catch up with the rhythm of life. And your own? Brother, last night Xiao kill the autumn wind blew all night, early morning, you