His mother told me that when his son died, she had left a few words behind.
He said: It's a pity that he left the world so soon. Before he had time to leave anything, he would leave.
It's really a pity that there are so many wishes that haven't come true...
He said he had written a lot of lyrics, but he didn't seem to have a chance to compose them. If only someone could make them out.
He said, "Mom, can I be wayward once?"
He said: Mom, there is a man who is both a writer and a singer. I have read his books and listened to his songs. It's hard to find this man, but Mom, you can help me find him. If you can't find him for one year, you can find him for two years. Give him my lyrics and he will understand them.
He said, "I've read his book, and I guess he'll agree.
He said, "Mom, my good mother, I never asked you anything. I'll be capricious this time in my life, you must be.
What if I can't write well? What if I let him fall into the trap of a thousand men?
What if I ruined the rest of his life?
But I want to say: Write, it doesn't matter.
At that time, the evening wind was blowing on the face, and the sound of the waves filled the ears. At the long wooden table on the coast of South China, the cigarette end was dark and bright.
He twisted out his cigarette and said, "You are my brother. I believe you."
But I hope so. Do I deserve to be your brother?
Ten thousand jin of shame is on my hands. I record the memories in the small restaurant of Gulou East Street in Beijing by pinyin one by one.
Maybe after I got the royalty that day, I shouldn't run and buy you a drink.
If I had drunk less than half a cup of prairie white stuffy donkey that day, I would not have been so drunk.
If I weren't drunk, I wouldn't jump on the table with my cup and shout at my voice.