圆桌，在楼顶露台上安置好。煮一杯红茶，袅袅熏香散在夜色里，又慢腾腾地回书房摸了一本书。刚刚打开，他又起身，去厨房拿了一个石榴同一个玻璃碗，等他剥完的时候，天已经黑尽了。他把半碗粉色的水晶推到木桌的那一边，净了手，打开摊在膝盖上的书，低低地念起来。
“TonightIcanwritethesaddestlines.
Write,forexample,?'Thenightisstarry
andthestarsareblueandshiverinthedistance.
Thenightwindrevolvesintheskyandsings.
TonightIcanwritethesaddestlines.
Ilovedher,andsometimesshelovedmetoo.
ThroughnightslikethisoneIheldherinmyarms.
Ikissedheragainandagainundertheendlesssky.
Shelovedme,sometimesIlovedhertoo.
Howcouldonenothavelovedhergreatstilleyes.
TonightIcanwritethesaddestlines.
TothinkthatIdonothaveher.TofeelthatIhavelosther.
Toheartheimmensenight,stillmoreimmensewithouther.
Andtheversefallstothesoullikedewtothepasture.
Whatdoe
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