小玉哭笑不得，“你果然还是对人信任度高的呀。他根本都不需要做很覆杂的事，link+你的名字，这事儿大家就可以传播了好么？”
我嘴硬，“那又能怎样？”
小玉：“很多事情在不知情的人嘴里，就会变样啊，不见得伤不到你。”
我回忆起流言四起被人唾骂的日子，不由得心有余悸，我说，“唉，已经这样了，我还是太天真了。我当时发了朋友圈，分享说自己成了一个小作者，他私信我问能不能看，我只问他，“我拿捏不准你对我的态度，因为涉及了很多隐私和秘密，我就想知道一件事，你对我到底有没有恶意”，他说那当然没有，我就信了，发了链接给他。当时还挣扎在写初中那点事情，他问我什么时候开始骂他，还主动要求提供素材。不管后来怎样，我跟他也曾经是很好的朋友。我觉得他不至于，也不屑于做伤害我的事情。”
小玉总结道，“就是说你对人抱有的信任度还是很高的。
我：“是的。”
小玉无奈：“说都说啦，就别想了。”
我点点头。
既然以后都不会再有联系了，那么二顺子，遥祝他继续做他的情场高手，常在河边走，还能一直不湿鞋。
算了，我还是善良点吧。希望他能早日解开心结。因为，放飞自我，没有框架和拘束的生活，是最为肤浅的自由。真正的自由永远是规则束缚内的，戴着镣铐的舞蹈。如若人人都失去了自己的行为底线，没有人可以幸免，没有人可以不被伤害波及。
希望他可以早日和自己和解，原谅过去的自己。因为每个阶段的自己都曾经真实的存在过。是最珍贵和独一无二的。不可能祈祷过去的自己从未出现过，也不可能亲手杀死那一部分的自己。
希望他可以终有一日付出真心，然后被人无情践踏。啊，说错了，不好意思。我重新来一遍，我是说，希望他可以终于有一日付出真心，并得到同样的真情回报，获得属于自己的幸福。
我想我又在道德绑架了。没有人可以评判别人的生活，也没有人可以真正理解他人的心路历程和所做的选择。哪怕我现在拿起了笔，拥有了一定程度的话语权，我也不是上帝。
总之，还是让我们祝他幸福吧，不管是继续浪子回头，还是继续潇洒，都祝他快乐无忧，祝他健康自由。
～～～～～～～～～我是突然知道新消息的分界线～～～～～～～～～～～～～
小歪说，“可是，我高中时候并没有收到二顺子的情书。”
作者有话要说： 二顺子发来的大段英文我就不写在正文里占字数了，发在作者有话要说吧。有兴趣的小读者可以看看。
另外我打算规范一下自己的更文时间和频率，有什么意见请在评论区告诉我。
放心，故事还有很长，不会很快杀青。谢谢看到这里的小读者，谢谢可以陪我走这一段路。
i have known very few writers, but those i have known, and whom i respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper. they have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager difort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the scottish highlands. i never heard of anyone making a 'skeleton', as we were taught at school. in the breaking and remaking, in the timing, interweaving, beginning afresh, the writeres to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. thisanic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination. a blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it. sometimes the yeast within a writer outlives a book he has written. i have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot fathom the exact outline of the vision before them. for the same reason, writers talk interminably about their own books, winkling out hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them. of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair. he is also, incidentally, an univable bore.
this temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing: he has begun to write to please.
a young english writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow. for this reason also the writer, like any other artist, has no resting place, no crowd or movement in which he may takefort, no judgment from outside which can replace the judgment from within. a writer makes order out of the anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its inmost point.
john le carre “what every writer wants” from harper's