我是一个骨子里淌着浪漫主义浑水的愚人
我喜欢街头冒了油烟味儿的嘈杂
那嘈杂在我耳中
和那艺术馆里的空间声一样安静圣洁
文字是我的牢笼
艺术是折断双翅的风
我陷于牢笼
我浸于折翅的痛
让门外的树生长吧
再茂盛些就会遮盖牢笼外的天空
那碎成玻璃渣却勉为其难自我粘黏的天空
是最后的呼吸和悸动
The romantics flooded my body.
I like when it was chaotic on the other side of the road
Those sounds of babel
Sublime and silent as those in museum reel.
Words weave me a cage of unknown
Art like wind breaks the hanging string of soul
I, willingly
cave in to those chaos.
Let the tree grow
till it covers the sky above my woven cage.
Fragmented. Glued. Shattered. Reconstructed.
Are the final breaths and hopes.