Standing on the side of the stage, Levine placed the guitar in the corner, groping up and down his pockets, found the cigarette box, and drew out a cigarette. It was squeezed out in his pocket and dropped sporadically. Some tobacco leaves and cigarettes became crumpled. However, he doesn't care.

He casually dipped it to his mouth, leaning his back against the wall, rubbing his hair irritably, thinking in his mind where to stay overnight tonight.

Those guys who are considered friends but not friends have already borrowed the night, and they all seem to be offended. Shouldn’t they hook up a woman like last night, and then go to her house for a night’s sleep? Otherwise, it's better to go to the professor's house to try your luck. They are always generous and kind. Seeing his downfall, they should not bear to refuse.

For a while, I thought of tomorrow's performance. I don’t know if Pioneer Village is willing to give him a chance to perform, but the bar owner is a stupid jazz lover who seems not interested in folk songs; or he may try it in another bar, maybe he can try to perform another song Tracks.

"Fire?" A question came from my ear.

He didn't turn his head, just shook his head lightly to express rejection, lightly bit the cigarette holder, "I will be on stage soon."

"Why, are you worried about Pappi to blame?" Pappi, the bar owner's name.

He couldn't help laughing, "No." After a pause, he explained lightly, "It's just because of the performance." Although this is an ordinary performance, try to be professional during the performance. This is his insistence. .

Suddenly thinking of something, he turned his head and looked at the bartender next to him, "I haven't found a place to stay tonight, how about it, can I come to your house for one night?" They are not familiar, but give it a try, anyway There is no loss. "I am a very quiet sleeper, and I am not fussy. A sofa and a blanket will do, provided that your home has heating."

The bartender didn't speak, and stayed in a daze. It seemed that he hadn't expected him to make such a request. They didn't even say a few words.

He didn't mind. He bit the cigarette holder again, seeming to be tasting the light bitterness in the tobacco leaves, then stuffed the cigarette into his shirt pocket, curled his mouth, "I guess, your home doesn't have heating." Tucao said. , And then picked up the guitar and walked quickly onto the stage, leaving the bartender standing on the spot, confused, seemingly wondering what happened.

In the bar, the whispering noise is still humming, some are enjoying dinner, some are drinking beer, some are lighting a cigarette, and no one seems to notice his presence.

But it doesn't matter.

Sit down skillfully, habitually start tuning, listening to the sound of the strings, feeling the strength of the fingertips, and then he began to play. Decided to sing "Hang me, oh, hang me" tonight.

Perhaps, this is the most suitable song, not only because his partner Mickey has just passed away, in a suicidal way, that idiot; but also because it suits the mood tonight, and now it seems to be on the gallows. It doesn't seem to be a bad thing.

He hummed softly, and gradually immersed himself in his own world, "It's pitiful to see," Is this talking about Mickey or himself? Or maybe...every poor guy performing folk songs? Or else the idiots who walked onto the battlefield with rifles? The smile on the corner of his mouth rose involuntarily, ridiculing helplessly.

After the song was sung, there were sparse applause and a few whistles from the audience. Lonely and empty, a large swath of loneliness surged deep in his heart, dragging his ankles and slowly falling, he took a deep breath, hid all his emotions strictly, and said half-jokingly, "You may have heard of it before. This one."

But the action in his hand did not stop, and he quickly packed his things, leaving the last sentence, "If a song has never been new, but it has never been outdated, it is a folk song."

There was a chuckle from the audience, and he couldn't help but raised the corner of his mouth, raised his right hand to give a simple gesture, and then left the stage with the guitar.

Today’s performance is over. In the kerosene lamp bar, the performance time of a song is extremely precious, because this is the most popular bar in Greenwich Village, and the folk singers eager to perform are like sardines migrating in winter. general.

A middle-aged man with a sloppy beard walked towards him, with a satisfied smile on his face, "Wonderful, very wonderful." This is Ethan Cohen, he remembers. "Joel and I just confirmed that all the shooting is over. The first scene is perfect. God, we can't believe it. The performance tonight is really wonderful."

Ethan patted his arm, "Now, we can finish work. But, Stanley just said, you are going to give a short performance, thank you fans and movie fans who are here? Is that true? If so, That would be great, it is a treat for all of us."

Ethan smiled and couldn't hide his excitement. "Joel just said that the time of a song is really too short. Maybe we should shoot a concert. Ha." But then he noticed his own. The words did not receive a response, "What do you think? Or, you are feeling too tired now. If this is the case, it doesn't matter. I believe everyone will understand."

"No, it's okay. I just wanted to smoke a cigarette, but...you can wait for a cigarette." He raised his eyebrows, a smile flowed through his eyes, but the smile was fleeting, and a bitterness of self-deprecating And sarcasm flowed out, "Who can refuse the performance invitation of the kerosene lamp bar now? At least I can't. I will be on stage again now."

Ethan stood still, slightly dazed.

He ignored Ethan, turned around, walked onto the stage again, and sat down in front of the microphone, "Hey, I'm back again."

He exhaled a long breath and rubbed his hair again. The messy hair was completely out of control, but the light during the interlacing period vaguely outlined the chicness and laziness between the eyebrows, and a trace of irritability was not visible. In the end, with a deep breath, it disappeared completely and turned into a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

"I thought, maybe tonight, we can spend a few more songs together." He hugged the guitar again, seeming to fall into his own thoughts.

I don't know why, I always think of Mickey tonight, he doesn't know why Mickey chose to end his life, he doesn't know why Mickey chose to give up. Or in other words, maybe he knows, but he doesn't want to face it.

In the sixties, the long sixties, the dark and humid years, the bitter and blank time, the repressive and bumpy life, like drowning and suffocation, when will they be able to break through the water and break out of the sixties? However, it is only 1961, and the far end is completely invisible, just at a loss.

He couldn't help being a little stunned. How long can this dream last?

"But, it's not hanging and hanging anymore, let's do something else." His words caused a low laugh in the bar, and then stopped talking, and started to draw the strings lightly with fingertips. , The irregular chords gradually find an orderly pattern in the chaos, and finally converge into a gurgling stream, passing through the lingering mist.

The brisk string music is like a sika deer running and jumping happily in the jungle and mountain stream, pulling away the morning fog little by little, looking for a quiet lake in the deep mountains and dense forests, a thin ray of sunshine is like the sky, and it is scattered on the calm lake. Above, like magic, the flowers bloom, the colors are colorful, the mist is surging, and the paradise is quiet and moving.

This is an unfamiliar melody, I have never listened to it. Gradually, the whole bar became quiet, and all eyes fell on the figure motionlessly. The gurgling of time seemed to ring in my ears, but It completely lost its meaning, and Wannian was just a blink of an eye.

The calm eyes, the breezy expressions, the calm aura, it seems that everything is lightened, and even the murmur of breathing disappears in the breeze; but the bitterness and melancholy between the faint The light and shadow dangled bit by bit, and people couldn't help but start to explore the stories and scars in the depths of those eyes.

Faint sadness, like the blue sky in March~lightnovelpub.net~ There are only a few clouds that sparsely and lazily cross the sky.

"Forget it, this skinny-love lasted only a year; add a little salt, and we won't stop there. God, god, god, staring blankly at the pool of blood and everywhere camouflage."

The drooping eyelids concealed the thrilling eyes of those eyes; the hoarse voice revealed the turbulent dark tide in the depths of the soul. Then, the fingertips began to strum quickly, the melody became lighter and lighter, the rhythm became more and more surging, but the heart became more and more settled, slowly sinking in the clear lake.

Bitterly cold.

"Oh my God (my, she tolerated and sighed, but in the battle of love, she was defeated steadily and was helpless.

At this moment, the whole world was quiet, listening carefully, the sound of love fragmentation, slight but heavy, falling apart in an instant, as if the world collapsed.

Different from the unrestrained and unrestrained and vicissitudes of life of "hang me, oh, hang me", the fresh, natural and brisk interpretation of this song is between the melody, but the sadness and melancholy revealed behind it are sung in the light of weight. Among them, slowly seeped out.

The sky in the 1960s was gray, everything was forbearing, everything was unrestrained, everything was gloomy, everything was chaotic, they were running wantonly, trying to chase the ethereal... Freedom and dreams, as well as justice and conscience, but chasing after them, just lost their way, and then stood still and lost.

In order to protect the fragility deep in their hearts, they armed themselves with unruly and jealousy, pretending that they didn't care about everything, it seemed that they would no longer be hurt.

"Oh my god, my god, my god."

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