我當然想看他親手寫下來的情書。我知道他從不輕易許諾。想來有些後悔了，早知要來一封，若是有，我大抵日日讀上一遍。

若能看着他一堆文稿裡摻着幾封關乎我的，我也歡喜。

我是相思裡作樂，他就仿佛是用紗蒙上了眼睛，被思念擾動而視而不見。

“夜晚總是容易引起回憶，我想起了我們互發歌曲的那一天。溝通方式和平的很，他說不出兇我的話就發一首歌給我，我聽着歌曲看着歌詞，幾日不見他可真暴躁，我似乎也沒有招惹他。可如何撫平，我來來回回選了幾首，最終停留在我最想說的話上，以歌回敬。答案當然是最後沉默。我們彼此心知肚明。那小客廳看來還是留着關禁閉讓人冷靜冷靜合适。哪怕養養花似乎也是不錯的。”】

“　I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow --the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart;

I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.”