一
Last night, a gust of wind blew, and the male flowers of the poplar tree were scattered all over the ground. After soaking in the rain, strange smells mingled with each other, and a rotten smell of bulging cells filled the nasal cavity. Before the warm spring breeze swept away, countless poplar flowers agreed to escape for one night, with a tacit understanding and determination. But the indisputable fact is right in front of us, and the outcome of them all breaking free from the source is nothing more than this.
It is rare for the north to have light rain for a few days, and it will take a few days for the weather to clear up. There are fewer strollers on the street, and the few remaining windows in the old-fashioned neighborhood are covered with a layer of milky mist both inside and outside. The boy's wild energy has been greatly reduced, and he hangs his bare feet high on the threshold, killing the time stretched by the drizzle. People have been bent back by the five buckets of rice in life, and most of the street signs that are covered with fog and have a layer of gray will be ignored. It is not surprising that there are piles of debris on the ground. The life and death of all things are normal metabolism. The regular cycle of seasons determines the necessity of falling, and gravity determines the direction of falling. In the thousands of years of seasonal reincarnation, no one has ever noticed it. Something strange happened.
Only Li Mo made the rotten smell hit his senses. He seemed to be naturally addicted to fragile things. His head was dazed for a moment before he felt relieved, and he couldn't help but speed up the trolley case. Because the nerve center is often dependent on external stimulation, it is necessary to find something to comfort it every now and then. He took advantage of the time to tighten the clock under his arm, lowered his head and looked around. A path flowing like milk extended from the reinforced concrete forest ten miles away to his feet. It was probably an illusion of the moonlight, the moonlight was really cunning. But he believed that apart from his illusion, there was nothing in this world. Even the real cigarette butts Xue Ming smoked were swallowed up by this illusion.
The gloomy thin clouds floated over the treetops, over the branches, and finally dispersed beside the moon, giving people the desire to look at the early spring weather. The mood at this moment, like the star shadows in the dawn sky, was still scattered in the cold sky of the previous season, making this desire mixed with too much looming past. He no longer tried to mobilize his desire, followed the arrangement of his intuition, and walked slowly. Entering this strange night. Under the lamp, the body and the shadow restrained each other. He seemed to have neither compromised nor moved forward.
Two
Li Mo was sitting in the room at dusk as usual, his two dry eyes moving clockwise with the faded Roman numerals on the dial, a void. of profundity. His room is not ventilated all year round. The old clock on the wall has not been wiped for a long time. The hands are covered with thick layers of dust. They move tirelessly and never make mistakes, as if what has made them operate for thirty years is not a mechanical spring but a spring. A mission given by an unknown force.
The clock hand never stops. This often reminded him of Aunt Lin upstairs, who was full of energy and could call the storm at any time. Her face was like over-fermented dough in a bowl, with two black beans dotted on it for eyes. There were clues about Li Mo's whereabouts after five o'clock every afternoon. No one can escape their sharpness. Li Mo felt that when a woman was young, she must have been a "lonely clock hand with thin legs." However, the days were changing, and once a person became a clock hand, burdened with the shedding of time, she might never be able to get rid of it.
When she met the unsociable Li Mo, she greeted him politely and asked about Li's mother's physical condition in a timely manner. In the face of inquiries, lies not only reassure others, but also bring a bit of hope for comfort. A "very good" in a smile leaves enough room for "you, me and him". Once you understand this, Li Mo's words and deeds will become logical. Facts also proved to him that accepting the truth is not a good thing, it will only make people more numb. For example, Li Mo would feel at a loss when the Chinese medicine his mother vomited was mixed with hemoptysis.
In the end, Li Mo decided to put an end to this verbal self-deception. This may be related to the fact that he often cannot find the passion to stay for one thing for a long time. Li Mo only had a soft spot for imagination, but when imagination came to his door, he had a lot of troubles. He oiled the door hinges in the middle of the night, so that there was no more ear-piercing metal noise when he opened the door, and he had less imagination of neighbors peeping from the dark; he hid in the drizzle on the way to get the medicine, following the sound of the door. The mushroom umbrella with the investment advertisement flashed by in a hurry, and all the imaginary exchanges of eyes that should and should not be blocked were blocked; he habitually absented himself from all public occasions, such as the hot spring invitation from his old classmate last week. . Li Mo occasionally imagined how his blood was surging in the steaming water, but gradually, his reason seemed to be sleeping forever in this indulgent immersion. Such sinful human desires made him hate and feel ashamed.
It is more because the nature of Li Mo’s career as a website writer determines that he needs time alone. As an engineering student in the Department of Computer Science, Li Mo is only interested in computer functions for posting articles on blogs and forums. For him, graduating from college is nothing more than moving the ivory tower of the university back home. The ivory tower is full of people. With the artistic passion of an idealist. There are two ways for him to submit articles. One is to sneak into group chats, where there will usually be advertisements for articles posted by editors from major websites and studios, in order to make quick money; the other is to sign a contract with a novel website, which The remuneration received from these methods is very different. Li Mo is just an ordinary writer with no name at the bottom of the pyramid, and can only get a full-time salary every month. The only thing that really got him interested was writing poetry, but since his hobby didn't make any money, he temporarily used the fruits he earned from writing manuscripts to worship the temple of his interest. No matter how hard it was, it didn't matter. After all, he was doing something he liked. In the days of hopeless days intertwined with countless evenings spent cooking medicine, so much thinking is the source of Li Mo's sense of security.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock... The three clock hands reminded him all the time when to get medicine and boil it, when to buy vegetables and cook, and when to write manuscripts and poems. Every day while waiting for the decoction, and in the evening when his mother fell asleep, Li Mo would usually sit in the living room for half an hour, watching the clock hands carrying layers of thick dust, carrying his tireless boring life day after day. Walking smoothly, never making a mistake. After the sun goes down, his imagination rises, and his mind is like a clock hand that never stops for a moment.
Li Mo recalled seeing an electrocardiogram in the hospital once when he was a child, on the day his grandmother passed away. Unlike in the past, the adults' grief did not make him feel at a loss. In this situation, he could only understand that he only had to follow the line with his eyes, instead of expressing his pain, as an outward expression of memory for his grandmother. In performance. After staring at it for a long time, I can see some unique beauty. He watched the weak rhythm of life turn from the hills to the flat ground, and all the waves finally became orderly and harmonious, as if he had returned to the beginning of life. The hands of relatives wiped away tears again and again. Li Mo could not bear the humid ward. He even imagined a mirror in front of him. At this moment, he looked like a goldfish fished out of the water, with a stupid and pitiful face. But no one seemed to notice anything strange.
Beep, beep, beep... For a moment, Li Mo suddenly felt that the line on the electrocardiogram was him.
三
From the first day when Li Mo called his mother to get medicine, he seemed to be mentally infected with the disease. If he did not take medicine for a day, his "condition" would become more serious. . When the doctor changed Li Mo's dressing, he joked that he was a divine farmer who had tasted all the herbs before he was thirty. Li Mo chewed the grass until it was tasteless like an animal chewing its cud.
At dusk that day, perhaps stimulated by the new medicine, Li Mo just put down the bowl and looked up when he noticed something strange on the wall. Due to the rain at night, the cracks on the corner of the wall where water was originally seeping advanced like a creeper. They actually spread to the back of the dial in the center of the wall, growing downward little by little. After touching the floor, there was no resistance on the smooth surface, and cracks appeared. Numerous capillary-like tiny branches.
The wall is about to collapse, and it is about to collapse in every second of silent thought. Only about this matter, no one seems to be more convinced than Li Mo, and there is no room for redemption. Li Mo felt that what was in front of him was not a wall, but a terrifying face with crisscrossed lines. Against the wall is his desk, on which is his computer, stacks of poetry collections, drafts, and a smooth faucet. The faucet that should have been discarded long ago has been used by Li Mo countless times as an outlet for his creative inspiration. But now, the wall was about to collapse, and Li Mo felt a trace of pity when he looked at it.
Only the clock hands on the wall are neither fast nor slow. Li Mo raised his arm and looked at his watch. There was no deviation in the time on the wall. As for the number of clock hands, he silently recited three in his mind, no more, no less. Under the effect of white tuckahoe, Li Mo's soles and back were dripping with sweat, like the endless drizzle in the city, giving him a sticky damp feeling. A ball of cold air ran through the cracks in his bones, as if it was chasing the warmth of the large bowl of hot water he had just swallowed. He wanted to change the medicine some other day, or now, before the pharmacy closed. He panicked that he would hallucinate after drinking the medicine.
His eyes were staring at the clock hands, but his soul was staring at the smooth heart wire. His body finally became damp, but the damp ward had long since left him. Many years later, the waves under that calm line were stirred up again, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock... A familiar rhythm line with a faint tail sound swayed in Li Mo's consciousness. When did his imagination give birth to this unexpected and transparent fourth clock hand? How long has the fourth hand of the clock been secretly lurking while his imagination was playing with the world... Many questions intertwinedly emerged. , Li Mo couldn't find the answer. The way he felt at the moment was like a glass of strong wine, he couldn't arouse the urge to clink glasses with others, and no one seemed to notice the difference.
For a clock hand to function properly, it must be connected to several other pieces. The order of time, the civilization of the world, and the agreed-upon rules are connected in a precise manner, running in the endless cycle of the three clock hands day and night. "It's like this every year, it's like this in every household, and it will be like this this year as well." People are used to living in an orderly manner in a precise order. For example, Aunt Lin is worried about the price of garlic, which rises or falls by a few cents in a few days, and experiences the changes in the stock market every day. Thrilling. Tick ??tock, tick tock, tick tock... Li Mo felt that in the monotonous advancement and repetition of time, everything was a long-dead symbol. In this way, the fourth clock hand becomes of great significance. It walks alienatedly according to the rhythm of Li Mo's life, relieved of the burden of carrying time.
The moon shadow by the window lattice moved inside the room, but Li Mo never took a step. At that moment, he swallowed and tried his best to focus his attention. Many feelings rushed to his taste buds, which were more bitter than any sip of Chinese medicine.
Four
Aunt Lin’s son Xue Ming is the same age as Li Mo. Xue Ming inherited Aunt Lin’s shrewdness and opened a flour mill in Jiangnan. Girlfriend comes home. The girl didn't hold the handle of her tea cup to warm it, so she said something happened at her parents' house and hurriedly took a taxi and left. As for what happened next, people with ulterior motives have come up with more than ten versions. The choice to believe or not, or which version to choose, varies from person to person.
Li Mo couldn't help but lie about whether he had a girlfriend, but none of his many hopes were based on this.
Li Mo knows that once he steps into the threshold of marriage, his bond with the world will only become deeper. What is the difference between a clock hand that conforms to human nature and the other three?
Only when Li Mo was writing poems, the mediocre swinging sound of the three clock hands would disappear from his ears. He seemed to be transformed into the fourth clock hand, and the entire universe in his writings rotated accordingly, achieving success. orderly in another sense. The rest of the time, he couldn't hear the movement of the fourth clock hand.
When he was deeply in love, he regarded poetry as the only muse in his life. In the melody of "The Swan" by cellist Saint-Sa?ns, his classical and pure face was revealed. Yeats's poem was gently unfolded, and a clear moonlight silk satin stretched between him and her. The two were walking on both sides of the distance, not too far or too close. If he tried to test it, she would shyly touch it; he said that he Nothing but dreams, and she happened to be the dream. He was praying that her life would bloom in his life and cover him with glory.
Li Mo imagined that they were lingering in the room and dancing under the street lamp across the street. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock... The fourth clock hand followed this round rhythm of life, tugging at the softness in his heart. In the yellow light wheel of the street lamp, imagination becomes strong and fragile. He suddenly remembered that the first time he heard the beautiful "Swan" was on the radio. Since he got his first computer after graduation, the old radio has been shelved in the corner of his memory. At this moment, he was extremely nostalgic, so he kissed the muse's cheek in a gentlemanly manner, and then hurriedly returned to reality. He set out to look for it in the third drawer of the bookcase. If he was lucky, he might be able to meet "The Swan" again tonight.
The radio was a birthday gift given to Li Mo by his senior in the literary club when he was a sophomore. But the friendship after graduation was like a flood that surged into the crowds of people running around in different cities, making it difficult to trace. . Another reason he put radio aside was because he didn't want to indulge in humble nostalgia. But when he saw the radio still lying quietly in the drawer, Li Mo breathed a sigh of relief. He carefully rolled the dial with his index finger, trying to get back to the familiar frequency. This radio station that once played "Swan" is caught in the gap between a late-night emotional program and a news program. If you put a little pressure on your finger, your head will slide regretfully. Li Mo held his breath, raised his ears, and played hide and seek with the long-lost memory in this crowded space.
The clock hand on the wall quietly slipped past a quarter past midnight, and the frequency modulation was about to reach its end point. Li Mo did not expect that in just eight years, with the incoming of some explosive capital, many old radio programs with high quality content would be extinct, and only a few that followed the development trends of the country would not be replaced. Li Mo felt sorry for the disappearance of the classical music radio station, but was also pleasantly surprised to find that there were still a few distinctive small FM stations that survived tenaciously. For example, there was an "underground radio station" for college students called "It's Too Many Bamboos to Write". With a huge youth group and various absurd realistic materials, it frequently receives anonymous calls, ranging from the love between children to astronomy and geography. The black humor style is very funny. But Li Mo finally felt that these entertainment noises were unbearable. The index finger continued to move forward clockwise, and he did not intend to stay too long.
"Today is a special edition of 'Death of a Poet'. I am the host Yang Guo. At the beginning of the program, I will present a love poem by Eliot for you who love poetry..." It seems that I hope to be with you. A turning point always comes to his mind inadvertently. With the melodious opening sound of the program, Li Mo's consciousness slipped from the edge of the dream to the female voice in his ear. His pupils suddenly enlarged in the night, and there was a faint glimmer. Flashing.
He had forgotten how he had tuned in here, but the appearance of the station he really longed for became clearer. People put away their flamboyant gestures in broad daylight and turned on the radio. Countless silent corners in the city were connected together, and they devoutly examined their hearts through certain sounds. Now, his intuition told him that he could place his longing on this frequency modulation. It also belongs to one of those niche FMs, with a fresh and bright style. The most important thing is that it is related to poetry, which makes Li Mo feel excited. There is no irritating pop music here, and there is no serious and deep affectation. Behind the calm female voice, most of the background is Japanese light music or European classical music. The woman's voice is fluent but not impatient, gentle but not coquettish, and the emotions in each line of the poem are transitioned just right. Ideal, love, tolerance, virtue, these words popped into Li Mo's mind during the interlude of the poem's transition. They all became labels, and Li Mo personally affixed them to the woman in his imagination.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
"At the end of the program, I still present Lermontov's "Sail" to everyone..."
Tick tock , tick, tick...
"The blue sea is misty, and the lonely sail is shining with white light!...What is it looking for in a distant foreign land? What does it leave behind in its hometown?"
Every paragraph and every word she said hit Li Mo's heart like beads, jumping and jumping at random, making his heart confused. He forgot "The Swan" and forgot the time, but he only heard the sound of the fourth clock hand running. The curled-up heart disguised in mediocrity, the curled-up heart soaked in bitterness, are all soothed by the resuscitating sound of the clock hand and the tenderness of the female voice.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
Li Mo returned to his desk and let his inspiration pour out on the paper. Such beauty gave rise to new ideas in his mind.
五
Since that night, the sound of the fourth clock hand in Li Mo's heart has been uncharacteristically lingering. Whether he was buying medicine, cooking, or working, poetry and women made him think about it. Her voice made him addicted, and it had a magical power that made him lower his guard and fully open himself every night. While walking on the street or waiting for the doctor in the pharmacy, he began to fantasize about everything related to this woman. Is Yang Guo her real name? If so, why not choose a pen name for yourself as a protection and hide the reality with fiction?
At this season in the north, poplar trees begin to bloom and bear fruit. Poplar trees grow to maturity in about six years. The flower spikes of male poplar trees fall off naturally after blooming; the female poplar trees bear fruit after blooming. When mature, the small fruits crack and the downy seeds fly around like dandelions. After falling to the ground Take root and sprout. The older the tree, the more catkins it produces. Although Li Mo is allergic to these catkins, he feels there is something beautiful in them.
At this time of year, Xue Ming goes home to visit his mother. Li Mo and Xue Ming had never had a head-to-head confrontation, but the conversation between the artistic young man and the businessman made him feel embarrassed just thinking about it. When Li Mo went out every afternoon, he would find new cigarette butts under the street lamp in the corner. Over time, he began to observe the shape of the cigarette butts. Most of them were not neat and neat, but had been rubbed hard, causing the body to become wrinkled. , there are still burn marks from cigarette butts on the gray wall, which makes him feel that the smoker is not like borrowing a cigarette to enjoy himself after a meal, but more like using a cigarette to relieve sorrow, but adding to the sorrow.
One night, when Li Mo passed by there, he saw Xue Ming's figure. Compared with Xue Ming, Li Mo was in his late 30s and had both seniors and juniors. He didn't even have a girlfriend. He stayed in his room every day and didn't know what he was writing. This was the impression he gave his neighbors. There was no objective statement in their mouths. If you pay close attention, you can hear the praise and criticism. The views on the hot bed of the wife and children are like the three meals a day, which coincide with each other. Li Mo felt that their conversation was more boring than staring at the hands of a clock.
Li Mo did not come forward, but he was not afraid that Xue Ming would find him. People of their generation naturally have the right not to be disturbed during every moment when they know what is going on. Li Mo was tired of the impetuousness of this era, but he considered himself lucky. Since he chose to immerse himself in the gentle land of spirit, he had no reason to criticize Xue Ming and others for their hard work. At the moment, they just need to live their own lives and be filled with the meaning of life.
What's more, since that night, Li Mo's life seemed to have new hope. He put aside his own work of submitting articles and concentrated on studying some poems that could be publicly displayed on the show. He wanted to hear her read them, and wanted to capture her feelings about his sentences, so that he could be elevated to her feelings for him. Feel. Tick ??tock, tick tock, tick tock... She seemed to have become his fourth clock hand.
Li Mo originally thought that his submission would be lost, but this opportunity did not let him down in the end. Tonight, his poems will be read from the mouth of a woman. What a sharp contrast between such a beautiful moment and his mediocre life. Tick, tick, tick... The operation of the fourth clock hand allows Li Mo's universe to expand infinitely.
"Welcome to the 'Death of a Poet' program, I am the host Yang Guo", Li Mo once again welcomed his muse.
"Today's program is a little different. I will read contributions from poetry friends, first of all, senior students from the Chinese Department of M University..."
Tick tock, tick tock , tick... Time seemed to be stretched infinitely by the drizzle outside the window. Li Mo was tired of the torture of waiting.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
"Next, are two poems by the 'poet' Li Muguo..."
Li Muguo, whom Li Mo admires Yang Guo. Although he was full of joy in choosing a new pen name for a woman, Li Mo inevitably regretted it the moment he pressed the send button. If a woman discovers his thoughts, he will die of shame.
"What I love is not the sun/but the sun that looms in the dark clouds/everything that I thought was burning/monotonous and public/following an unexpected destruction... I envy your wet soul..."
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
"I run forward in the early morning/The street runs backward/The scarf runs backward/The nose exhales and runs backward/Time goes backwards Run / beside your crossing / I also / run backwards..."
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
His clock hands are burning and his soul is crackling. At this moment, she was inseparable from poetry, and they turned into fuel and worked hard to add fuel to his heart. He sucked in the pleasure of reviving every nerve in his brain like a dead tree, hating himself for not being able to enjoy himself to the fullest, and for being unable to escape the torture of the cross of love. , I hate the self-deception that the devil in my heart shouts, "Freshness is eternal, exhaustion is short-lived". He was always vaguely afraid of the inevitable end of his passion, and if this beauty remained for one more minute, he would be impatient for another century, as if he was secretly asking for an ending that would eventually cool down to prove that he was not overly worried. , but some kind of foresight. He bounced irresistibly between the torments of withdrawal and addiction.
"Dear poetry friends, one hour is always so short. All submissions tonight have been read..."
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock... Li Mo She seemed to still be immersed in the short-lived joy between him and her.
"At the end of the program, I will present Lermontov's "Sail" to everyone..."
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...
Li Every time Mo listened to a woman reading "Sail", he would think of his mother's cry in the next room, Aunt Lin's noise downstairs, Xue Ming's sigh under the lamp, and countless staring eyes hidden in the darkness. He seemed to see a lone sail cruising in the light blue sea. The white sailboat was drifting in a strange place. It hated the wind and rain and was dedicated to the ideal and light.
Saturday
My mother’s funeral happened to be a rainy day in the spring of the following year. This old-fashioned community was demolished in the 1990s, but it managed to survive for half a century. People set their end of life early, but death often comes unexpectedly. The only person who accompanied Li Mo to the funeral was his mother's only living relative, Li Mo's uncle. Li Mo stood in the humid ward, which was empty. Without the crowding and grief of his childhood relatives, his heart was also empty.
This spring, old-fashioned neighborhoods are also empty. Xue Ming finally chose to marry and have children with his girlfriend of ten years, and Aunt Lin's family was also taken over by Xue Ming. It wasn't until the pharmacy moved and closed that Li Mo discovered that he was suffering from a pseudo-infectious disease that did not require medication.
My mother passed away quietly in her deep sleep late at night. There was no pain. Everything around her seemed to be like the heart wire, moving towards the original order and harmony. He wandered the streets at dusk as if nothing had happened, looking at the freedom he had dreamed of, and suddenly realized it. But the inexplicable mood made him confused. Was it because of the lotus buds in the park pond that were humming and weeping secretly? His thoughts penetrated his turbid eyes, and dimmed faintly with the distant afterglow on the horizon. Perhaps it was because of the golden wheel that disappeared on the decadent horizon, or the reptile that spoke dumbly to him, and a few strings of silent teardrops bounced heavily. Under the dusk, the fog is misty and misty. Is he aphasic or is there no one to talk to him?
The night will not be delayed for a moment because of his melancholy. He is looking forward to the familiar midnight, looking forward to salvation from his muse, and eagerly waiting for the return of "Sail". What the woman was reading tonight was Yeats's posthumous work. His reason told him that the woman's voice seemed more bright and moving, while his burning clock hands, the crackling soul, the entanglement of love and hate, the precepts and the The torture of addiction has all disappeared into the calm sea. What seems to really add color to the voyage of the sail is the storm.
Li Mo walked in the dim and warm color of the street lights, and a few slanting strands of light hit his face, making him look particularly psychedelic. He no longer buys groceries, cooks, boils medicine, or even writes poems. It seems that he has lost his mediocre days and the meaning of writing poems. It seems that without wind and rain, the meaning of ideals and brightness no longer exists. He came to, and pure misery was as lifeless as pure hope.
Seven
After a gust of wind blew by last night, the male flowers of the poplar tree were scattered all over the ground. After soaking in the rain, strange smells mingled with each other, and a rotten smell of bulging cells filled the nasal cavity. Before the warm spring breeze swept away, countless poplar flowers agreed to escape for one night, with a tacit understanding and determination. But the indisputable fact is right in front of us, and the outcome of them all breaking free from the source is nothing more than this.
The old community will be demolished next week. Li Mo tucked the ticket into his luggage. Tomorrow night, he would arrive in the crowded city center and start a new journey. Perhaps tomorrow night, he would be reunited with his muse. While fantasizing about the long-lost spiritual climax, he took off the old clock from the wall and finally stuffed it under his arm.
The gloomy thin clouds drifted over the treetops, overflowed the branches, and finally dispersed beside the moon, giving people the desire to look at the early spring weather. His mood at this moment, like the star shadows in the dawn sky, was still scattered in the cold and silent sky of the previous season, making this desire mixed with too much looming past. He no longer tried to mobilize his desire, followed the arrangement of his intuition, and walked slowly. Entering this strange night. Under the lamp, the body and the shadow restrained each other. He seemed to have neither compromised nor moved forward. But he faintly heard something at this moment.
"The lonely sail is shining with white light!...
What is it looking for in a distant place?"
Tick, tick, tick...< /p>
"The restless sail prays for the storm,
As if there is a peaceful country in the storm!"