逃亡过一个季节，又一个昨天。
逃亡过一个季节，又一个昨天。只有风还在空气中低吟着，留下飘渺的流沙以作时光祭。
Escape a season, another yesterday. Only the wind is still in the air with low moans, leaving featherweight quicksand to make time offering.
昨天是艺术界的倒霉的一天，不过反常的是，艺术并没有因此而进入又一个黑暗的时代。
Yesterday was a black day for the arts. Yet paradoxically the arts are not entering a new dark age.
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