I opened the dusty memory again, and those beautiful words were wrapped around my heart, just like the breeze and flowing water all the way, tranquil, elegant, cool, delicate and refreshing, and lingering, which lasted for a long time. Pick up the pen and ink lightly, and book a season of love and resentment. In real life, only time can measure loneliness, and gradually realize that those who are still frowning, wandering in the sea of hearts, and still entangled in dreams are those who cannot be put aside, after all, you are just a mirage of life! Only when your heart is bleeding can you know the painful bone erosion, and only when you lose your eyes at night can you know the depth of love! Only when you turn around resolutely can you realize that the wound is really heavy. Why not forget that in the old Autumn, in the endless sunset, in the years when the cool wind passes through my ears, your flying shadow passes through my sky, leaving no trace. From then on, the vision you looked up and saw was no more than that floating cloud. In the annual rings of time, you once had a perfect throb and a incomplete encounter. The birds and geese who returned to their nests flew into the sunset, but they could not leave the wounds. Why not forget that in the poetic dusk, the wind is gone, the clouds are gone, and the old debts of the past are faded. There is no tree in Bodhi, and the mirror is not a table. There was nothing at first, but where did it cause dust? It just occurred to me occasionally in many of the past and caused some inexplicable sorrow. Years, be looking back, put pen to paper become cemni qing war, Tianya you across the Millennium dust fall into my zither strings. At the end of the song, you enter the poetic style, I enter the picture scroll, and there is a fairy tale forever. Why not forget that in the frost-dyed maple forest, walking in the misty rain with time and breeze, let the overflowing heart fly into the boundless sky; Don’t want to look back, I believe that there will still be Willow dim flowers at the corner of autumn. If they depend on each other, will it be at dusk? Years will finally weather the residual fragrance of fallen red, and life will finally force myself to slowly learn to wave my sleeves calmly, warm smile without pain. In the bustling and intoxicating of the red dust in Zimo, I don’t think about snow dance or flower flying, and I am wrapped in a plain and light worry, waiting for the passing of the fleeting years. When the dust settles, the love is full, the wind and frost are gloomy, and the old Red love you are on the corner of the wind and rain corridor, warming my waiting.

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