Every Monday, Yang would ride his bike to the newspaper offices to get a copy of the paper, and would eagerly open it up on the way to school: "The smell of fresh ink wafted from the lines of print. That smell spread through the morning corridor, as vigorous as the poems themselves, possessing a mysterious beauty, a magical destiny."
每週一，他騎著單車到報社拿報紙，上學途中就迫不及待地打開：「新鮮濃烈的油墨味從字裡行間擠出來，在晨間走廊發散幽香，和詩一樣帶著無窮的生機，有一種迷惑的美，一種宿命的魔力。」