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可有对写作下过一个完美的定义?是夙兴夜寐后的著作等身吗?是独在异乡用手中的笔记下那一刹那的层林尽染吗?还是二月草长莺飞时心中猛然掠过的那一首曲调?抑或是午夜梦醒时发现海棠花未眠,轻轻写下的“如梦令”三字?我知道现实远没有写出来的那
May have a perfect definition of writing? Is Xingzhuang night sleep later in the body of the book? Is alone in the hands of the notes in the hands of the storied make it? Or when the grass in February flying birds suddenly plundered That one song tune? Or wake up at midnight found Begonia flower did not sleep, gently wrote the “Dream Letters” words? I know the reality is far from writing