1. If there is no sun tomorrow-Jingmingguo.
one
Say to thinking: there is a kind of worry that is inexplicable. This sentence is not allowed to be used on me. Because I have Qian Qian absolutely puzzling troubles. For example, I always worry that if I become a goldfish in the next life, my tail will be long and beautiful or short and ugly; If I suddenly forget those chemical equations written thousands of times during the college entrance examination, will I cry on the spot? If there is no sun tomorrow, then in the face of a long and lonely night, should I meet a girl as sad as lilac or have a good sleep with my head covered?
These are all problems.
I could have gone on like the water of the Yellow River, but Xi Murong told me that youth is a too hasty book. So enough is enough.
There are also days when the Yellow River is cut off.
two
"Well, is the night in Chengdu black/is there a temple in Qingcheng Mountain/is there a bluestone road black/well, I ask you/is it black for your long hair/or is it black for my missing?"
I originally went to the "Banyan Tree" website to read Xiao Yin's poem, but I saw that such a "black" poem was a folk song. What I want to tell Silver is that the night in Chengdu is very dark.
It was dusk when I got on the plane in Chengdu. The whole city shines under my feet. When I pass through the thin clouds, the lights under my feet are like stars all over the sky, while the black land, the black basin where I was born and raised, is really like a dark sky. And the same scene is above my head.
There are stars on your head and feet. It looks like a beautiful illusion.
Perhaps in this sense, the night can also be beautiful.
If there is no sun tomorrow, how far will the night spread?
Annie Baby said: As dusk came, my fingers began to stir.
Anne is a special person, an unusually wandering soul. She always writes in the middle of the night, writing down her beautiful dreams as if they were growing in water. But I've read too much of what she wrote, so I got into such a bad habit of writing late at night.
In the early hours of the morning, my restless inspiration will start to jump, jingle from my fingers and make a diamond-like sound on the paper. I began to get used to the rich aroma of Nestle coffee and the constant typing and typing in front of the computer at suffocating nights. I was exhausted and fell on the bed, cramping happily.
If there is no sun tomorrow, I think I can write a lot of words and sell them to my favorite editor. Then I will have a lot of money, and then I can buy back my beloved badminton racket.
If there is no sun tomorrow, it may be a good thing.
three
If there is no sun tomorrow, how big will the next night be?
Zero births at night. Shu Ting's poems.
When the night expands again and again with a stubborn attitude, the endless darkness either makes me stiff or makes my blood boil, and this state is very hysterical, I know.
At night, I like to lie alone in bed, looking at the black sky through the high glass window, watching how many dark white clouds pass by the sky, emitting a lonely and cool atmosphere.
I also like to squat on the side of the road and watch the large plane leaves fall. If it is cold, I will hold my knees tight. This is a good posture, like a lonely boy.
If there is no sun tomorrow, I think I should shed a tear on that dark night.
I am a person who loves in case, really. I often make an assumption that if time goes back two years.
If time goes back two years, I don't think I will go to a tired and numb high school. I think I'll just pick a technical secondary school and choose a major, and I'll never look back; I will be prepared to "escape from elective courses and compulsory courses" like the girl with a halo in Peking University. I will write a lot of manuscripts and give them to my familiar editors; I will continue to work hard to make my radio program until it becomes a household name; I will learn that the piano will make my fingers extremely energetic, instead of twisting my fingers from various strange angles to use the left-handed rule and the right-handed rule as I do now.
However, Einstein told me that this assumption is untenable.
So I still have to walk along the wall with a lot of math test papers, or I can only occasionally look up at the lonely clouds and lively winds in the sky from the pile of books, or continue to be stiff or boiling at night.
Night scares me.
four
If there is no sun tomorrow, then the night will really scare me.
Although I am deeply infatuated with those beautiful fantasies and black flowers blooming in the dark, if I have to choose, I would rather have a sunny tomorrow.
I think I still love sunshine in my bones.
As I told my friends, in fact, I am a quiet person in my bones, and I only occasionally quarrel inexplicably, but my friends told me that you are actually a quiet person in your bones and occasionally quarrel inexplicably.
Many times, one thing can be justified from two aspects.
I like to sit in the golden sunshine flowing like water on the balcony during the day, holding a thick English dictionary in my hand and turning over those long English entries. This is my quietest time. Many times I am restless, and my deskmate always reminds me at high frequency: Don't be crazy.
On the balcony opposite my house, there is always a girl with a slender braid reciting some English grammar carefully, but unfortunately many of them are wrong. When she reads English, she is very serious and gnashes her teeth, much like my junior high school deskmate. The deskmate also wears long and thin braids, but his face is already blurred. Memory is like a pile of broken glass scattered on the ground. It will take a long time to assemble. Besides, there is no eraser at hand to remind me of her at the same table.
Memory has been lost, in a certain dusk on a certain day of a certain year.
A bloody sunset that never comes back.
Too soon, too soon, it is sad, it is sad.
Cherry is red, banana is green, you walk your wooden bridge, I sing my sunset tune, whose loneliness, like a knife, kills my grandma bridge and my Niannujiao.
The beautiful Duras said: when a person begins to like memories, then he has already begun to get old.
I think I'm trying to remember, or I'm trying to get old.
I think I am really a crazy person.
five
If God wants to destroy a person, he must be crazy, but I have been crazy for so long, why doesn't God destroy me?
This is a problem.
Also, the Bible says that the sun will not rise the day before the end of the world, and the day after tomorrow will not be the end of the world. Why do some people doubt that the sun will not rise tomorrow?
This is another question.
I think God's old man must be trimming his toenails leisurely now.
six
I was an ordinary netizen in my last life. He is a clever man, a man who called himself a child when he was in senior three. My first understanding of past lives was that he wanted to put some of my articles on his website, and he let me know by email responsibly. We always chat happily in the evening.
If there is no sun tomorrow, I think I can chat with previous lives for a long time until both of them are foaming at the mouth.
I was a poet in my last life, and then I stopped writing. His reason is that "my finger betrayed my thoughts and died".
Last life said that his last life was a grain of sand in the Sahara desert, so I told him that beautiful story: every time I miss someone, God drops a grain of sand, so there is Sahara.
I asked him what my past life was, and he told me: the wandering duckweed has no roots, the homeless running water does not hurt, and the lonely fourth dimension has no soul. In fact, your past life is a pointer on the clock face, and you can't do anything to watch the time go by.
He always pokes me in the snow, so many nights I have to turn off the computer, then drink a large glass of boiling water, and then tell myself: don't be afraid, sleep well tonight, sleep well tonight.
But I kept waking up.
People who insist on waking up in the dark represent the last struggle of mankind, but such people often die first.
I feel very sad.
Don't come at night, I like sunshine.
seven
After all, the end of the old calendar is most like the end of a year. This sentence of Lu Xun seems to be a sick sentence, but it is actually very reasonable.
I walk in Shanghai, a beautiful city. Looking at more and more red lanterns hanging in the street, I am even a little worried that the bright sun will really fade out tomorrow.
I am walking on the road, with beautiful French phoenix trees on both sides. I've been wondering if my mother will wrap the coins in the jiaozi and sit at the table and wait for me.
If there is no sun tomorrow, lend me a pair of black wings and I will fly home.
eight
I divided the article into eight paragraphs, which is an auspicious number.
Winter is already deep, and I know that spring will be beautiful soon.
This winter is like a beautiful illusion, everything is pressed into that very thin and bright negative and put in my heart. While the sun is getting weaker and the calendar is getting thinner, there are more and more words in my computer. It is full of my beautiful fantasy, like a gorgeous garbage dump. When I cleaned up my words the day before going to Shanghai, I felt like a happy little beggar.
If there is no sun tomorrow, I know it is false.
But my black poem, the starry sky above my head, my lonely posture squatting on the roadside, my English dictionary, the long-haired girl opposite my house, and the road I saw through the lantern are all true.
There is still Chinese New Year, and I want to go home quickly.