我的记忆是忠实于我的,忠实甚于我最好的友人。它生存在燃着的烟卷上,它生存在绘着百合花的笔杆上,它生存在破旧的粉盒上,它生存在颓垣的木莓上,它生存在喝了一半的酒瓶上,在撕碎的往日的诗稿上,在压干的花片上,在凄暗的灯上,在平静的水上,在一切有灵魂没有灵魂的东西上。它在到处生存着,像我在这世界一样。它是胆小的,它怕着人们的喧嚣,但在寂廖时,它便对我来作密切的拜访。它的声音是低微的,但它的话却很长,很 My memory is faithful to me, faithful to my best friend. It lives on a burning cigarette, it lives on a lily painted lily, it lives on a worn-out container, lives on a decadent raspberry, it lives in a half-drunk bottle, In torn past poems, on dried flowers, on dark lights, on calm water, on everything that has a soul and no soul. It lives everywhere, just as I am in this world. It is timid, afraid of people’s hustle and bustle, but in silence, it will pay close visits to me. Its voice is low, but its words are very long, very