下雨 空气很湿润 可是气氛却很不HAPPY
我种了一小盆西洋滨菊 老板说 2个月就可以长出小花了
我很怀疑他会不会开 但还是抱着很大的希望
我给他取名字叫白小院 和大N有关
不知道隔了这么远 还可以找什么话题和他搭讪



如果，身边的人都失去理智，并将其归咎于你，
而你却能保持清醒；
如果，所有人都怀疑你，而你却能自信如常，
并体谅他们对你的怀疑；
如果，你能耐心等待，不急不燥，
或遭人诽谤憎恨，却不去以牙还牙；
既不去光彩照人，也不去才华横溢。



如果，你能去梦想，但却不做梦想的奴隶；
如果，你能去思辨，而不是为了思考而思考；
如果，你能以平常心坦然面对失败和凯旋。
并懂得，他们其实都是幻象；
如果，你能忍受你说出的真理，被无赖们故意曲解演绎，
用以误导愚昧人群；
或者，眼睁睁的看着你为之付出一切的珍爱，
被人诋毁，然后俯拾碎片，
用老旧的工具去细细修补。



如果，你敢把所有赢来的人生筹码堆在一起，
冒险一搏，却一把输光，
然后从零开始，从不言败；
如果，你能让精疲力尽的意气与肌体，
依然听从于你仅存的意志，
告诉自己一定要“坚持”。



拂晓时分,我伫立在阒无一人的街角,我熬过了夜晚。
夜晚是骄傲的波浪;深蓝色的、头重脚轻的波浪带着深翻
泥土的种种颜色,带着不太可能、但称心如意的事物。
夜晚有一种赠与和拒绝、半舍半留的神秘习惯,有黑暗半球的欢乐。夜晚就是那样,我对你说。
那夜的波涛留给了我惯常的零星琐碎:几个讨厌的聊天朋友、梦中的音乐、辛辣的灰烬的烟雾。我饥渴的心用不着的东西。
巨浪带来了你。
言语,任何言语,你的笑声;还有懒洋洋而美得耐看的你。
我们谈着话,而你已忘掉了言语。
旭日初升的时候,我在我的城市里一条阒无一人的街上。
你转过身的侧影,组成你名字的发音,你有韵律的笑声:这些情景都让我久久回味。
我在黎明时细细琢磨,我失去了它们,我又找到了;我向几条野狗诉说,也向黎明寥寥的晨星诉说。
你隐秘而丰富的生活……
我必须设法了解你:我撇开你留给我的回味,我要你那隐藏的容颜,你真正的微笑——你冷冷的镜子反映的寂寞而嘲弄的微笑。



The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
corner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
of things half given away, half withheld,
of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart
has no use for.
The big wave brought you.



What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
that living men have honoured in bronze:
my father’s father killed in the frontier of
Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather
–just twentyfour– heading a charge of
three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,
whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
somehow –the central heart that deals not
in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
yourself, authentic and surprising news of
yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you
with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.



我爱你，与你无关
即使是夜晚无尽的思念
也只属于我自己
不会带到天明
也许它只能存在与黑暗 我爱你，与你无关
就算我此刻站在你的身边
依然背着我的双眼
不想让你看见
就让它只隐藏在风后面