日子像清风翻书，一页页过去，记住了对白，模糊了章回，泛黄了情节，流淌在毫底笔端，凝结在眉尖心头。

The days are like a cool breeze blowing through the pages of a book, as page by page passes by, the conversations are remembered, the chapters are blurred, the story yellows with age, as it flows from the thick tip of the brush, frozen in the space between the eyebrows.