三月初的北京,天儿还冷着。北京火车站,裹着风霜与疲惫的人们,从出站口一批一批地涌出,急匆匆地,像一只只工蜂。无数人带着理想蓝图,或是肥皂泡的白日梦,眼睛都流露出不加掩饰的向往。拄着双拐的王琨,瘦瘦小小的身子,被这人流淹没。一副画板,一个箱子,军大衣里裹得紧紧的800元,是他“北漂”的全部家当。他用力将身子挺起来,走到路标处去看路,手里紧紧攥着一张纸,上面是那家破格录用他做画师的公司地址。北京,这就是北京。王琨的心被涨得 In early March, Beijing is still cold. Beijing Railway Station, wrapped in weathers and tired people, from the station a number of groups to gush out, in a hurry, like a worker bee. Numerous people with the ideal blueprint, or soap bubble daydream, eyes are showing an unflappable yearning. Wang Kun leaning on the shin, a thin body, was flooded by this stream. An artboard, a box, wrapped tightly in the military coat 800 yuan, he “North drift ” all the belongings. He straightened his body, walked to the signpost to see the road, clutching a piece of paper in his hand, above which was the address of the company who had taken him as painter. Beijing, this is Beijing. Wang Kun’s heart was up too