Dust in singing

To be bored, all seasonal vividness, using individual wings to make polite condolence, may be really boring, limited space is not enough to release, or it is difficult to let go of some degree of weight, everything is fixed, just like the direction of flies or butterflies. Everything is churning in the dust, the angle is boring but the technique is similar, the time is in the same mood, the morning bell and the drum, according to the old topic, curling in the vulgar dust, curling into clusters of spray, from the beginning to the end, they showed their own postures. The structure is always the same and small. I don’t even laugh at the years and catch clouds and moon, but it comes from the waves that are hard to calm and the waves that are unremitting. I always can’t forget myself, so I often emphasize my tone and fail to judge objectively. Summer is full of courage in the years. When I saw the city, it was paved into roads. Whose feet was that? Who’s Portal? Or back? Sweat turns into a rain and falls into an encounter on the cross street. It is impossible to distinguish whether they are moved or spoken on the stone slab. I have touched rows of water traces and eyes, and my uncertain wishes wandered along with the crowd. My anxiety flickered, and the Illusion turned into the predecessor of the dust, shaking into the rain. Boring, boring singing! Dusty, they get used to it, the plot is so old that there is only one inch of time left. How can I feel? Perhaps it is the rough feelings that make it difficult to cross the boundless and have the dream that the dust cannot give birth. It doesn’t matter. The silence in the ending is simple and tortuous. I am close to the roadside and the front of the mountain. I want to find the fragrant path in a casual mood. This is the flourishing season. How can I find the flowers and plants, it seems that I was moved by yesterday’s image and put my names at hand one by one. Through this state of mind, Miss Can’t help falling down. By the clear stream, we stretched out our feet, surprised by the cool waves, surprised by the faint and quiet light of the summer wind, and the floating wind slowly dispersed. At this moment, it seems like dust is clear, it is full of poetry, gently touching the color of water and the simple chord. The allegorist in the sky was on a trip. I stood outside the Sea of clouds and in the clouds, isolated the noise all the way with a sober consciousness, and only listened to the streams under the white clouds; stretching the light singing voice!

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