镜子里,映着一个身影。我伸手,他也伸手。手指触碰的瞬间,他似乎笑了,继而对着我说,你是最好的。你会独自在笔记本上写自己的小说。那些刀光剑影、梦境重生,那些情感的寄托,从钢笔中流出。你会为破碎的情节而闭目沉思。你会不满于自己不成熟的笔触,尽力去阅读精致的文字。你去模仿他们的忧伤、明媚。一小段的文字,抒不尽你的思想、情感、迷幻。我希望自己是你。 Mirror, reflecting a figure. I reached out and he reached out He seemed to laugh when the finger touched, and then told me that you are the best. You write your own novel in a notebook. Those swords, dreams rebirth, those emotional sustenance, out of the pen. You will turn a blind eye to the broken plot. You will be dissatisfied with their immature brushwork, try to read the exquisite text. You go to imitate their sadness, bright. A short paragraph of text, express your thoughts, emotions, psychedelic. I hope I am you.