I don't know who told me that women who smoke don't scar. I don't think a woman who has never been hurt will fall in love with cigarettes. Do you like the smell of cigarettes or the feeling of cigarettes? I don't know about others, but I like the feeling. Smoking is not a physical need, but a spiritual need.
The vitality of smoke is short-lived, and so is the vitality of all things that lose their souls. Most women who smoke are beautiful and sad. There is a fragile heart hidden under the strong exterior. If a woman who doesn't smoke is faint carmine, then a woman who smokes is a mandolin. Women who smoke are as cold as Campbell.
Love is a kind of injury, but women find happiness in it. Smoking is also a kind of harm, but at the same time, smoking makes women forget the harm.
I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another one, just watching it burn quietly. At this point, the corner of my eye flowed out.
Light wet crystal, because it is about to disappear, or for yourself. I don't know, but I feel very empty. I fly to the sky like it and disappear into the sky. Watching it gradually disappear, the air is filled with a faint smell. The ashes I bounced off were so lonely, as lonely as me.
Smoky, burning quietly, as simple as that, don't think about it.
A woman who loves smoking.
My friend gave me a pack of Korean women's cigarettes the other day. I repeatedly reminded her to buy me a pack of cigarettes. I'm used to 520, which is a habit, but I'm not an addict. It's just a hint of mint lingering on the tip of my tongue, which feels like the first kiss that the boy gave me when I was a child. I remember this wonderful feeling as deeply as I remember my own name. I often think that I won't forget the feeling of my first kiss until I forget my name. Although now I have forgotten the boy's childlike appearance. I only vaguely remember his childish outline. But that feeling has been engraved in my heart like a brand.
What are the letters of the name of that pack of cigarettes? There are some letters on the white paper box. ASSE, I can't pronounce. Friends say its Chinese name is "Cherish". Or "love and happiness", but I like "cherish" and "cherish"-what wonderful words. Love for women. I never thought how lovely it is for people to cherish their lives because of the plague.
Since I chose to associate with cigarettes, what can I say about "cherishing"?
Unconsciously, it makes the skin rough, dull, panda-like black smoke circle, pale yellow nails, black teeth and riddled lungs.
Cigarettes are like lovers, knowing that lovers are not as reliable as wives. No wife loves me deeply, but she still loves that enchanting feeling as always. Perhaps people's hearts are longing for a kind of rebellion and sin.
Subconsciously, I always think that women who think they are self-righteous and very sure that they smoke have unknown stories. Those wonderful stories that have passed for a long time are often poured out in the deep heart. Or once sad as midnight wine, whispering; Or once happy like a bird flying in the blue sky, accompanied by happiness; Or smile at each other and bow their heads and kiss. They can't forget the past, so they can only miss it. But that kind of heart-wrenching nostalgia always makes them cry quietly when they are alone.
Memories with loneliness as bait often come out in the middle of the night and float in her mind, so she chooses alcohol or cigarettes to anesthetize her soul under the tension of fragile nerves.
I am not a woman who is dependent on smoking, but a woman who has smoked at best. Even though I believe that every woman who smokes has a sad past, I don't rule out that cigarettes can't rank in my heart. It can be said that it has no place in my heart, because I won't take it out when I am extremely happy.
Red lips, cigarettes and wine have always been symbols of depravity in tradition, but those who rely on them are not self-indulgent. It's just anesthesia
Traditionally, it is ridiculous to choose this kind of anesthesia, because it is better to sleep and let dreams anesthetize. However, people with such inner feelings have no sleep at all, and even if they do, they have no deep sleep or wake up in a deep sleep dream.
My friend gave me love. I choose to cherish, people who care about me don't know that I used to play with cigarettes late at night. Those I love don't know that I'm not a healthy woman who just wants to drink boiled water.
It's been a long time, and only two pieces are missing from that bag. The rest lay quietly in the deepest part of my drawer. Look at me with lonely and bitter eyes.
I chose to cherish, but I fell in love with a woman who smokes. Not in love with smoking, but in love with a woman who smokes.
I don't know who said that girls without scars don't fall in love with smoking.
A woman who has never been hurt will not fall in love with a wound.
I don't think a woman who has never been hurt will fall in love with cigarettes.
Smoke is the memory of those beautiful details. Being a woebegone woman, sitting in a gloomy scene and smoking in winter always makes her feel unspeakable sadness.
I guess at this moment, the pain in her heart is blooming like a blue rose.
Smoke is short-lived, all ecstasy is short-lived, and beauty is more beautiful because of short-lived. If you get hurt a little, you will cry. She is a simple girl, but a woman who smokes will not cry easily. If she chooses a cigarette, she will choose a beautiful one.
Love is a kind of injury, but women find happiness in it. Smoking is also a kind of harm, but at the same time, smoking makes women forget the harm. If a woman who doesn't smoke is faint carmine, then a woman who smokes is Datura. The smoke is drifting away, but what lingers is amorous feelings and fantasy.
A cigarette. What does it mean for women? Maybe it is the peak of lust, maybe it is the sadness of breaking up. Love without harm is not complete.
It is necessary to remember or forget those who have loved and been hurt.
Smoking is not a physical need, but a psychological need.
Long and thin, smoke burns between clear and moving fingers like dark blue nails, a little deep, a little lazy, a little charming, a little gentle and a little lost.
A cigarette is more like parting.
Sitting in a dark orange cafe, it exudes a quiet fragrance, and all the sunshine is around you.
Outside the window, everyone is in a hurry, and everyone seems to know their own direction.
Women who smoke are as cold as Campbell.
A yellow book, a cup of black coffee and a heart-pounding poem brought back a shy girlhood. At that time, I knew nothing in my life except light green dreams.
The sound of footsteps stopped everyone's eyes from breathing.
That back, like a misty cloud, made many winds stop singing.
That voice, soft and sweet, is like a shower of spring rain, so sad and clean.
At that time, how many lovely tears were shed for the stories in the book.
But now, not anymore, because she has become a character in the story.
Every woman's fate is a tragedy. Because, for women, everything is so short.
When you are young, it is warm to imagine getting old in one's hands.
Because, at that time, I still didn't understand what old was, and I thought it was a deep romance.
Now, when years have mercilessly carved scars on our faces, we find out what a terrible devil old age is.
Old age is the moment when the smoke is about to burn out.
I put out the cigarette and lit another one, only to find that the corner of her eye was moist and crystal clear.
The smoke is burning quietly. The coffee shop in the morning, like a young woman who didn't wake up, is spinning light music in a low voice.
It's better to be stuck in a chair than to sit in it.
The log chair is like a flower basket, but there is a gray rose lying inside.
All morning, I was immersed in such a warm feeling of chocolate and smoked one after another.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, the number of people gradually increased, and she moved slowly. She wants to stand up. When she saw the last cigarette in the cigarette case, she sat down again and lit it. The match lit up the dark corner, showing deep melancholy marks on her face.
People's voices make her feel uneasy. Before he finished smoking, he got up and left, with light steps and posture like a cat.
Then, disappeared in the cold wind of December, without a trace. ...
Radas, a woman who smokes.
Qu: Huang Yaoguang Ci: Lin
Driving alone, wandering around alone.
She is used to smoking instead of talking alone.
Dark green glasses cut off the sun and don't want to look far away.
There is no need for warm light, because she refuses to expect.
Just let a cigarette light a face I really want to see.
This is the only cigarette in the cold carriage.
Let the rising smoke weave an invisible face.
The vague story is reflected in the mirror.
The light green shirt is lined with red and yellow lights.
Laugh in the car, and she will gradually disappear in the long road.
Three choices when looking at a red light with gorgeous eyes
Just wait for the lights to change.
Let a cigarette burn a dream blocked in the morning.
In an ideal theater car.
Let the rising smoke cover the road you don't want to see by the window.
Who wants to find a notice?
Keep spitting smoke, because she has long been used to it
Forcibly extinguish the cooled smoke.
She kept smoking because she didn't want to get used to it.
Peel off the picture frame and watch fate turn around desperately.
Keep driving, because she is bent on the meeting.
A street that can be changed will never be signposted.