Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of
shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the
Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of
collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of
great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in
the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the
firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of
the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes
and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on
the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all
round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
--Charles Dickens
太會經營畫面了...
(又或許我這開始看經典...看得不夠多)
(有沒有推薦的)
--
我懷念的是無話不說 我懷念的是一起做夢
我懷念的是爭吵以後 還是想要愛你的衝動
我記得那年生日 也記得那一首歌
記得那片星空 最緊的右手 最暖的胸口
--
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