星期三的早晨,城市被一层薄雾轻轻罩着。
远处的楼只剩下轮廓,像铅笔还没描实的草稿;近处的树倒是清楚,叶尖挂着细小的水珠,风一碰就落。站在路口等灯,呼出的一口气在面前停了一下,才慢慢散开。
一周走到一半,雾也替人把脚步放轻了。
Wednesday morning, the city wakes inside a thin mist. Far-off buildings fade into pencil sketches, and my breath lingers a moment before drifting away. Halfway through the week, even the air is moving slowly.