Hold a pen, book and paper

I always thought that a stunning glance would be the most beautiful encounter in my life; I always think that the unforgettable promise will be the most beautiful fireworks in my prime; I have always believed that my unswerving pursuit will be my unrepentant pursuit. But I don't know that sometimes I am busy, sometimes I am lonely, and how much dust has settled in the dark. The fireworks of a prosperous age have cooled down who's youth and who has remembered that deep concern. The loneliness of Qingcheng is more like who says that love is deep and shallow. It comes and goes. In the world of mortals, where does it go? My tenderness decorates your dreams, and your eyes brighten the sky.

The mountain and the water are so beautiful. With a flick of a finger, time will never return. The wind lingers in the air. I, stop in the memory. People can never see through the mirror, but the clouds in my fingers have been in the world for thousands of years, such as my moment. Only I am still like this, enjoying the sad beauty of the scenery and the endless fireworks in my life. When we met, we were drunk at the front edge, the wind and rain dispersed, the smoke and fog, and the residual flowers fell and danced all over the sky. Where is the end result when the music is not broken and the music is like a whirl?

People say that flowers are beautiful, but who will cry when they see them? My heart is like a Qianqian knot. Who is drunk with me? There is a kind of mood called loss, and a kind of beauty called giving up. Some people say that if you can't forget it, hide it in the deepest corner of your heart. All the past events flow quietly in the long river of memory, just like a faint rainbow in my life, which is gorgeous and short. The flowers will bloom in spring, and the flowers will fall in autumn. Year after year, the flowers will often bloom, and the flowers will bloom differently from year to year. Perhaps, in the previous life, I stared at the flowers, and Yi's inadvertent glance made me look back and affect the soul of fragrance; After three lives in the world of mortals, I only want to find a bosom friend who knows flowers, has compassion for flowers and knows flowers. In the morning and dusk, all the shallow loneliness and light sadness of the flowers are replaced by tranquility. On the way of turning back in the afterlife, they are gentle and lingering, and the dust hearts are entwined. They accompany each other and guard the dust and smoke of the mortal world. With the most touching shallow smile, it is interpreted as a thrilling tenderness and tranquility. This will be a trace of warmth, a trace of warmth, and some feelings. In the heart lake, gently blowing a circle of ripples, rippling into a beautiful and beautiful song.

The flowers are flying all over the sky, the two eyebrows are falling, the wind and moon are irrelevant, the sky is rustling, and the sorrow is continuous. In those days, a smile provoked infatuation. It was destined that I would go through a thousand years of entanglement with you in the world of mortals. Tonight, I can't help but be drunk in the sun, wind and moon in my previous life. Drunk tonight, fleeting years steal; Recalling the past, shallow ink and plain paper, chrysalised cocoons of love become butterflies, butterflies break into flowers, but flowers fly with the wind, shallow singing and whispering a few que words, drunk asking what year is this evening?

Whose half of the country is locked in an empty city? Whose dream heart is broken by a goodbye? Whose peerless face is sealed by a sigh? A drop of clear tears, who buried the flower like smile nightmare? A farewell, who abandoned a lifetime of love? Whose infatuation in this life was buried by a sad song? If I leave, there will be no future. In case of light wind, it will turn into clouds. In case of vegetation, it will turn into dust. If you meet the sea, you will turn into a grain. If it meets the sky, it will turn into nothingness.

Who is sitting under the bodhi tree, counting the falling flowers, the soft murmur, the rustling sigh, the murmuring Acacia, and the enchanting beauty of rouge? Who is intoxicated in the misty rain of the mortal world, who writes the romance of the human world with the curl of ink, who is fond of the past and present lives with a Tang poem, a song poem, and a Xiao music?

Who blooms thousands of tenderness on the flowers in spring? How much yearning and deep feeling are imbued with the thoughts of those petals of flowers? Who is it that Ren Wanzhuan's love is spreading all over the long branches, but withers into a plaintive misty rain on the green, fat, red and thin days? In this life, I would like to be like a flower, blooming a corner of beauty for you. If I can be happy with the pingting of lotus, sad with the elegance of chrysanthemum, and infatuated with the constancy of plum, then, let winter go to spring, the seasons cycle, rain and wind blow, and years invade. Even if it will eventually drift away with the wind, even if it finally falls into mud, I will let that touch of tenderness dye the world.

The heartbreaking melody, which has been stuck for a hundred years, is worth turning white. That life-long love, the music of Shao, how cold and desolate, how much green silk, how much cloud and smoke. Who is waiting for the candle that disappears in the middle of the night? Who is pacing from the dim light? Flowers are poems, flowers are pillows, for whom are you infatuated? The wind does not lose its time, and I have become a stranger to you. A love, a lifetime of memories, a pot of wine, a heart, can't envy mandarin ducks or immortals, just increase Acacia, cold and clear, and forget, in exchange for a lifetime of love.

The four seasons are reincarnated, and time carries many feelings and engraves traces of vicissitudes. Those orderly handwriting tell the disordered mood in the time. Time is like a dream. We are used to seeing the autumn moon and spring breeze. The stories of the world of mortals are the same, but we can't part with some beautiful encounters after all. Come and go, look and seek, have missed, have hurt, have forgotten. How many journeys have been made, how many feelings are flowers watching across the water, and how many people can't reach the other side. The mountain is a journey, the water is a journey, and time is like quicksand. The stories that are too late to be told are scattered into light ink. In the end, I am still me and you are still you. If one day you forget me, I will not forget you. I think it must be I am not good enough. That's why you want to run away. You just don't look for me anymore. You stay in that time. I only hope you can live better than me.

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