Time flies, the years like a shuttle, to the mirror of time, we do not recall the former happiness. That true self, because of the recall, always with a lonely aftertaste, step by step, walking in the song of time, constantly copying and pasting. The water is in a hurry, like the ice in the palm of the hand, in different temperatures and visions, will eventually melt. Those beautiful and simple things, with the passage of time in a hurry, like a dream, like a dream of falling flowers, autumn leaves drifting, passing away with the wind.
The flow of years haggard light pen, each touching the heart of the chapter. The city of the past, still chanting the wind; dreaming of flowers falling, had blurred the vision of who? Those dusty mottled broken shadows on the other side of the shore, the silence of whose one away from the remnants of the dream. I have used loneliness countless times to cover up the heart of the lake of tears, time step by step with light footsteps, towards the end of August, the youthful decadence of the dream, at a loss in the eyes. The corners of the heart, rotating a season of sad conversation, so that the story of the final, whitened the memory of the period.
Drifting all the way, with the thoughts enchanting solo dance of the heart, I always remember countless seemingly familiar images, the tears flowing between the heart, as if every cruise in the words of the word line, the solo language as such, the wind bleak and cold, attacked the mood of the sad eyes. Panicked thoughts, countless times spreading the story of the familiar, prosperous transit of the strange, in the end, or still pale, the yellowing of the past in the bag, page after page turned up the pure white of the dream, the flow of the years of the unbearable passing, as if it has been dressed for the story.
The hustle and bustle of the city, crisscrossing the footsteps of people in a hurry, looking for, that return to the rest of the journey. Every scenery, strange familiar, back and forth interpretation of the years of stunning flow. Old dreams of the past, in the memory of the warmth, prosperity; plainly adhere to a calm, in the face of countless want to say words, as if never uttered. Time, novelty, is a flavor of bitterness, life; destined for their own tired a, cry a, pain in order to share the joy of success.
Fanghua wasted time, is ultimately stained fingers years, looking at the memory of the long road, too many strange intersection of language, can not confide in the most complete expression, every time in the text walk in the word line, hiding a drop of time tears, in the face of the age of Kansai old, and constantly repeating the story of the encounter and parting. Encounter is a kind of reunion, parting is a touch of broken. Standing between the time and years, gazing at the clouds of the world, tearful eyes lingering, unhesitatingly looking for the lost track of the years.
Meandering through the years of years, fall will come, a lot of memories, evoking the heart of the past memories. Still remember; that year the autumn wind and rain, the maple leaf residual red, with the shadow shaking the innocence of the years we walked together. Messy and messy mind, always in the depths of memory, inscribed with our once, those who made a good earth old barren days, always thought it was very long, a lifetime will not change, but the time song of us, we will end up far away from a stranger prosperity, such as the song of the years, has long been no news.
Memory, deep and shallow trajectory, with all the way back to memory, stained with the vicissitudes of the dust, with a few grains of dust, through the black and white. Too much nostalgia and sinking, in the fleeting gaze between, flowing pen tip, through the line of words. How many days can be repeated? Walked the road, passed the scenery, all the way familiarly left behind. The journey of life, the distant extension of the front has not been able to, listen to the song of time, look at the age of walking through the shadow of the fingertips, adding to the sadness of the sigh.
Listening to the years as a song, time flows by. Those aged in the light of day in the barren years, depressed and lost, touched by the attachment, as the wind up falling leaves bias dance, the residual leaves disturbed a few dreams of prosperity, intermittent stretches of the sentiment of the sadness of the intestine, diffuse the mood of the miserable sadness and sadness. Countless traces of the existence of the dream, stained with time aged hands, red dust had sung in the past, dried up the years of love, mottled with the time of the broken shadow, light sadness, so shuttle in the darkness of loneliness, listen to the years as a song, look at the time flowed through.
The darkness of the night silent corridor, the distant pale canopy forget to caress the heartstrings, Brahma's years, like the once can not go back, stained with an expired dream, so that the taste of loneliness and sadness, bit by bit brewing in the heart, dim broken shadow, flow of customary notes. Like to listen to music, close your eyes, will always recall the sentiment left behind in the mind, there is a kind of feelings, can be very long, there is a kind of thoughts, has been very far away and far away, I do not know how many times, in the no one's night, the tears fell righteously.
The passage of time in a hurry, the years carry the hurt, a shallow sadness, written all over the letterhead, depicting the color, as if always sad words, blurred look, is that we can never go back. Had in most of the time, anxious and disorderly acceptance of the beauty of life given. Hiding in the corner of the silence, soothing the pain, time imprisoned in the vicissitudes of the right way, the years stranded calling voice, in the remnants of the season of soft, lost in the worries that had wandered. Rendering blank time, staggering along the way, and time; fading away.
Listening to the years as a song, time flows by, youth is supposed to be so, happy, laughter. Met, left, light always pierced the beautiful everything, we do not know, the next station of the stage, will appear in the scenery beautiful where? End up dreaming in the thirst, bearing in mind that those who have made our hearts ache in the past, and climbed the mountains and waded through the water, in the disappointment, recalling the success of the wonderful, regret; remorse lack of regret. The cycle of the years, is to let the strong grinding, experience joy, bitterness and joy; is a heart, sometimes need to be gently soothed. Sometimes need to be y remembered. Listen to the years as a song, time flows by.
Youth is the landscape we have been chasing, in the face of smiles and tears, in time, clasping hands, in the fragrance of life, non-stop persistence, never give up on the chase of the dream child. In the years of Lou Lan, sometimes close to, in the face of the distant road, has always believed that, as if all, no matter clear or fuzzy, time in a trance between the confusion, there is always all the forgettable fragments, is the years to those who have been left in the title page of the imprint, lovingly after a few, in the long shore of time, non-stop running.
Years in the long river, I wind and rain, rushed to the future, that bright road, every time through the crossroads of life, indecisive thoughts, carrying the load of the mind, every step, as if they missed the most beautiful scenery on the road. The world, a lot of gorgeous dazzle, temptation wrong choice. So accustomed to, accustomed to the brush with the years, clamped with the call of memory, sketched the time flowed through the water rhyme map, the life of the ups and downs, come and go in a hurry, mottled without trace of what can not be grasped, and the time of the song, the years are still fragrant