Palms to palms, warm palms

Years of the river, there are most of the post, is pain, is hurt, can not escape infection of the palm.

Memory of the light, wandering in the night, like to be buried, but left incomplete a few notes, describing a story of the results.

The passage of time, are in our inadvertently truly yours defection, leaving only a trace of the remnants of the shadow, no one seems to have known the feeling. The passage of time, like fireworks, in the process of burning, there will always be charming so a a flitting, addicted to the memory of the cheek.

Huaqianyuexia, Dusk courtyard, no fragrance, wind thin, memory of the Minions, through the time and space of the eye film, flapping memories of the past years. How many handsome stories, how many wonderful dreams, in which glow, weaving into the memory of the screen, pinch in the palm of the hand willing to abandon.

Concerned about the past, the palms of the years, stripped of the memory of the palm, will be a good story of the scene, weaving into a silk sad breeze, drowned out how much good time and smile.

Memory of the box, filled with the story of the years, seems to be so imminent. Fantasy to keep him long, just years of flight, time passes too fast, always too late to retain. To be, those beautiful stories, so disappeared, into the dust of the years.

The red dust, memory without destiny, ethereal accidental. When the color of memory is drowned by the years, memory no longer snuggle for you, the years of the box will disappear, ushered in the atmosphere of isolation and sadness.

The situation in the dream is still so strong, night or, that calm, hobby with both hands to pick up the memory of the bond, feel the breath of the night, feel the cool breeze of the fingertips, quiet living in the hometown of Dreams. How many years destroyed the memory of the link, broken and tied, tied and broken.

Suppose, the memory is the key to turn the years, because why can not find that scene of the face of the years. Memory more and more light, more and more can not find the imprint of the years, finally only the old appearance. We run in the river of years, long-distance run and unrest, but still have achievements, concrete we harvest only but is that incomplete memory, there is no guideline and standard, can only Romans ups and downs.

When the memory echoes in the mind, as the years of time back to the ancient times, flooded with is all, disappeared in the cradle of memory, there is no information.

Probably, there is still a little bit of residual sound, refused to say goodbye. The years eventually still fickle, it wants to be like a meteor, disappeared in memory, leaving only a handsome moment, cheated a lot of love. It seems that only those remnants sound, knocking the bells of the past and the future.

I do not know when, like memories. So slowly obvious memories of the affair, that is our experience and growth.

The palms of the years always toward the palm of memory, and the palm of the memory.

Palms to palms, warm palms