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记得那是80年初春一个下着暮雨的周末。那天傍晚,雨冷冷的,很细,且夹着风,山谷中弥漫着一股飘散不去的潮潮的雾。放工后,我从山那边的建筑工地返回,天已变得越发阴晦了,只有食堂边上那间用板条钉成的收发室,才透出一缕淡淡的灯影。这间简陋中显得有些破败的木头房子在我心里如同一处圣地。几年来我在坎坷人生之途中写下了东西,大多是由此寄发出去的。而每一回发出去一个稿子,我总像小心翼翼的朝圣者,天天来这里翻拣信件,祈望得到编辑部的回音。这次,我仍旧怀着些许的羞涩,放轻足音走近木屋。正待敲叩那扇虚掩的小门,门却呀一声开了,一张挺熟悉的少女的脸在亮亮的灯光里显露出来。每次出
I remember it was a twilight rainy weekend in early spring 1980. That evening, the rain was cold, very fine, and the wind was clinging to it. There was a mist in the valley filled with a wave of undulating waves. When I left for work, I returned from the construction site on the other side of the mountain. The sky became more and more obscure. Only the reception room, planked with slats, on the side of the cafeteria revealed a faint light. The dilapidated wood house in my simplicity is in my heart like a holy place. In the past few years, I have written something on the road to life, most of which is sent out. And every time I send out a manuscript, I always look like a cautious pilgrim, come here every day to pick up letters, hoping to get editorial echoes. This time, I still with a little shy, light footsteps approached the cabin. Waiting to be knocked on the vague door, but the door was opened, a very familiar girl’s face revealed in the bright lights. Every time out