季节的转换是一种不彻底的遗忘。像是灰印子,拂不掉。念头今天想起来,明天就躲在风景,仿佛看见它,又仿佛只是幻影。有些念头宛若夏末的卷云,无法久待,绝美或凄凉,心头一阵起伏,秋雨一来,散了就散了。树影子细碎纷乱的投影。河边参差青碧的水线。飞鸟长空的悠鸣。窗玻璃上的倒影。萤火的明灭。来路不明的旋律。错过了的阵雨。诸如此类,一闪而过的念头。 The conversion of the season is a kind of incomplete forgetting. Like indelible, can not afford to brush. Thinking of today, think of it tomorrow, hiding in the scenery, as if to see it, it seems that only the illusion. Some thoughts just like the late summer cirrus, can not be long, beautiful or desolate, my heart burst of ups and downs, the autumn rain, scattered on the loose. Shadow of the tree shattered chaos projection. River green bifurcated waterline. Flying birds long sky. Reflection on windowpane. Firefly out. Unreliable melody. Missed showers. And so on, the idea of ​​flash.