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November 28
痛
半夜,伤口一阵阵的痛。在如丝的记忆中找寻,似乎失去了什么。
那物伸手可及。怎奈却又虚缈飘忽,捉摸不定。
一切美好的东西,卑微的人又怎配拥有。既然不曾拥有,为何却又患得患失?
原来会痛的并不是只是伤口…
谁能给我片阿司匹林?
米开朗基罗的《创世纪》
上帝与亚当,指间的距离是那么的接近,命运的距离却是如此遥远
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