他有了足够的板块,却拒绝将拼图拼起来。于是片刻它们又被打散了。四散在别处。“您是不是想说:去过去寻找完好的瞬间?”片刻他就错开了,侧头避开目光,算是掩饰了恋恋不舍的犹疑。希拉脸上的阴影使他有些不安,就像突然幻听到过去熟记于心的乐曲,或者过去的香气似的。它不会像他一样活在想象中,回忆和现实却几乎占有等同的比重。
他有了足够的板块,却拒绝将拼图拼起来。于是片刻它们又被打散了。四散在别处。“您是不是想说:去过去寻找完好的瞬间?”片刻他就错开了,侧头避开目光,算是掩饰了恋恋不舍的犹疑。希拉脸上的阴影使他有些不安,就像突然幻听到过去熟记于心的乐曲,或者过去的香气似的。它不会像他一样活在想象中,回忆和现实却几乎占有等同的比重。
In the ocean front there was a storefront
When where we once used to meet
In dust shall we wander
Parle nous ceylon Rosmarin
Can I rearrange my heartbeat?
To approach the endless mirror
And in this we became
scarecrows and scarecrowd
桑德兰再次出现在同一个梦境的延续中。虽然他意不在此,也只好不以为意地做个局外人。他有些倦了,对于这些似是而非、似曾相识的事情。过去和想象中的过去联结正一张错综复杂的网,将他缠绕住,直至窒息。轻轻叹了口气,他在一棵无花果树下席地而坐,准备继续充当他自己生活的看客。
You have severed a chance to settle down
Organizational origami
Eternity is a perpetual movement
In perpetual gazing
Your house was my world
To you: restring
Only perfume and tapeworms linger
Tape a butterfly on your collarbone
埃德加马不停蹄地回到宿舍,他一整天都没有恢复他正常的姿态。他没看标签就从酒架上取出一只玻璃瓶,并且喝了很多,也不只是希望以此钝化还是激化他的情绪。然而血酒雪上加霜地赋予了他丰富的想象力(和更加鲜明的性格)。
以赛亚将手伸到月亮前,透着月光石看月光。于是他笑了,可是他想哭。
他们找到了彼此,以赛亚却觉得他以此失去了自己。
Is it the morphines?
Here comes my naked soul
Beauty or decay
A pair of dead doves
Bright hair about the bones
Cheap wine through veins
他对中洲文人骚客关于血族浪漫化的,惯有的误解隐约有些嗤之以鼻,同时依然纵容着这种片面化的曲解:他们半夜一觉醒来,只需打扮得当,出门引诱无辜少年少女醉生梦死,纵情狂欢就好。
他侧眼瞄向黑白大理石地砖上的鹦鹉螺化石印痕,一时间不免有些眩晕。
And we fall
Into the same new world
While I was also away
To each their own abyss
Swift like a hummingbird
On the Rolex glass shelf
And leave the rest underwater
Red umbrella in the rain
Cast a sundial on scarlet bricks
As the day gradually pass away
The street is full of lost people
In a city that is no longer lost
St Angelus shoulder blade
Chances are you remember me too?
We were young and a little bold
Across the mountains across the seas
A little bit of you in me
“黑袍、雅致、血腥、审慎、硬领、我现在不大清楚,究竟谁才是信理会的了。”希拉终于夺过他手中的玻璃瓶,出现在他眼前。他真该往它身上安个铃铛……他的主人总是站在他的对立面。只有通过它才能真正看到这一面。曾经他以为他比对立面高尚。他比肆意的死亡高尚,就单纯的杀戮而言,他一直以来都有着正当理由——甚至高尚的理由。曾经他不仅拥有理智,还有信仰,对于死亡而言,他过于高尚。
I went to hell yesterday evening
To see a glimpse of you in me
Glaslow, St Gregory and snowstorm
In the royal museum of common things
There is a belonging never-achieved
Tripped by the inexperience of experience
Straight into your gaze there is a mirror
Is it the darkest of yearnings