Autumn, past, pain, fate.
life is always the interpretation of too much about.
In fact, we are all the same, for the story of others laugh, but for their own story crying.
the world rotates, the seasons turn, and the leaves drift through the season.
I am the same, engraved in the mind of the sad blot, always erase.
I know that time has never been for whom.
In spite of this, I cannot restrain the flood of feelings, continue to write their own words and sentimental.
the words are soft, without bone, a hint of desolation.
the smile was stiff and dull, with a hint of sadness.
so, want to touch those bright sunshine, let happiness at the fingertips bloom.
just, some of the memory only in the heart to stay, when the years have become old, happiness is still far away from me where the stand.
my eyes are also repeatedly lax, and after the slack is also not gathered up.
There are occasional migratory birds flying through the sky, but it seems to me that this winter is too early.
The sunset on the horizon, fell too hastily. Yu Xia Guang has not illuminated the smile, let a person repeatedly injured.
suddenly think of childhood self, then peace of mind, smile like flowers.
the hourglass choked my throat and I changed.
time to our innocence, not before and childhood say goodbye, the passage of the years, for the past to draw a full stop, childhood is not.
Some people say that the song in the wind is most beautiful.
so I stood in the wind and listened attentively.
when the wind blows, drifting across my ear, but is the cry of the dandelion.
is the time is too ruthless, those we thought will never forget the people, eventually become each other's hurried passer.
scattered in the horizon, illusory, reach to retain, but retained a debris-type memory.
"The butterfly is a flower, but the flower flies with the wind." "This should be the best explanation for the pain," he explained.
life is always like this, inadvertently hurt others, and inadvertently hurt by others.
when the past has been unbearable, when I can't hold the sign of youth, I think, sadness has been with me through the season and season.
The youth, such as the Silent River, winds its way and flows to the next ferry port along its fate.
Micro-mood: butterflies for flowers, flowers, but fly with the wind
