Sleepless at night, write a word, smoke and rain

In early winter, the sky was Translucent. Looking from a distance, the outline of the mountain was looming, just like covering under a curtain of cicada wings and gauze, which was false and true, just like standing in the boundless fairyland described by the painter. The sunshine at this time was pretty bright, but it couldn’t stop the coolness slowly gathering in the air. The coolness floating in the air spread out, as if there was a layer of smoky gray style everywhere, and there is a little smell of isolation from the world. Thickness of solitary cold, silent lonely, then 1.1 point from front, from step extension and forward spread, stretching to the distant horizon. Yesterday, the weather was fine. Although the sun’s light and shadow were very thin, there was a feeling of spring returning in an instant. Standing in the lonely cold wind, stretching out his arms and facing the sunshine, suddenly a wisp of warmth rose leisurely from the bottom of his heart to the whole body. And it seemed that winter was always stingy with the generosity of sunshine. Just one night later, this morning, I opened the window curtain, but I saw a strange scene of six flying flowers outside the dusk, leaning on the bed and getting drunk. At this time, the snow was still falling, and it had been a whole day. In the downfall of the night, the moonlight was deep and clear. He pushed open the window to enjoy the snow scene, just like moving away from a fairy dust of Taixu. The Dreamland was blurred and the ice crystal was like jade. Snow, light snow, continued to fly, spinning, half shy, fell to the ground gently all the way, like a fairy near fan, wearing white clothes, graceful and plain. Yingying Snow White, with the cold and dark fragrance on the ground, elaborately carved a kingdom of fairy tales under the lonely night, stopped and stopped, softly, and gently tapped the silent window torreya. Winter has really come! Stretch out your hand, and pieces of delicate snowflakes fall down from your palm, turning into drops of water in a flash. They are dense and open, like polished ink, copying plain white beauty for the silent world. In the distance, a scene of secluded curtain lengthened the clear and broad night, and pulled away the thoughts that could not be put in the deep heart. Outside the window, the numerous trees have no flowers, the eyes are lightly swept, the branches are withered, the ground is lonely and lonely. I love you, never love others, never, this is true, Roy, never. The sentence Mala said in “broken blue bridge” suddenly appeared in the shallow memory. In the quiet night, the scattered imagination was like a cocoon, and the threads twined my thoughts again, stretching out to the distant place. When keeping the promise of love, he could only look at each other for life and death, when Roy leaned on the handrail of Waterloo Bridge and recalled Mara who had gone with the wind, he knew that everything was over, but my love always exists for Mara of heaven. The stirring love almost always stops its final beauty with the sad ending of flowers in the mirror and moon, and then leaves a long sigh to the world. Love is so beautiful, sometimes, but it can’t stand the trick of fate. I always like classical literature, and often compare myself to an elegant woman who collects the wind in the words, or hold a poem scroll in hand, wet the lapel with tears, wandering in the sadness that autumn is tight and fallen flowers have become the soul; or slightly hold the slender, send a message, send a letter of love, and share a kind of lovesickness, two idle sorrows. I have been indulged in the lingering beauty of ancient poetry for a long time, just like walking in the reincarnation of fate, always thinking of some profound thoughts in the old age, beauty, but there is pain of bone erosion. But for me, this kind of heart knot of single romance seems to be a lingering temptation. The mind is rich, but the words can’t get rid of the pale feeling. There seems to be a lot of styles when writing down, but I don’t know where the pen is falling in the meditation, so that my heart is clear, but I can’t find the direction of conversion, so I feel confused. Walking in the world of mortals with poetic thoughts and counting the past of flowing water at your fingertips, you are like a lonely life on a one-way street. A person, a lamp, is used to loneliness and the mottled and fragmentary memories in the time. Snow is still falling, slowly becoming a fairy tale in words.

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