It is easy to write but difficult to describe; the reader is unclear and the author is sad. I know my teacher is my clear path. What the hell is this "why does it happen"? delete! ! ! Alas! ! Even if the pen is like a ghost, it is still holding a candle. I read both pictures and texts, paralleling the past and the present, taking Chinese and barbarian ideas and cultivating my ignorance in order to repay my teacher for his great kindness. My talents are sparse and my knowledge is shallow, and my writing is like excrement. I hope my teacher will forgive me. . .
I rarely use uncommon words, and I can’t even think of them at the time.
I really don’t know why you wrote this thing. Even though you wrote it, I still don’t know what you wrote. Damn!!