Open a roll of ancient prose. Slowly, gently fascinated by the melody of words beating.
Yesterday was the precipitation of China's 5,000-year history.
I can't see through the vicissitudes of the text. Unknown "is both bright and philosophical to protect its body."
It seemed to rain like this yesterday.
Rain is pure.
Rain is natural.
Only a mediocre existence between heaven and earth. I don't care about the darkness last night, and I don't want the light tomorrow morning. However, the existence of the existence, the loss of the loss.
I can't see through the restless heart in this world. Drifting drizzle pours out pride and mind.
Naturally, it rains like this.