Ruthlessness is not as painful as sentimentality, an inch is like thousands of strands. When the ends of the earth are endless, there is only endless love.
The setting sun shines on the water under the leaves. Rolling in light waves, sinking thousands of miles. The sour wind on the bridge hit my eyes. Stand for a long time, watch the dusk, the city lights. Under the cold window of the old house. After listening to a few pieces, Jingtong flew down. Not falling in love with single quilt comes up again and again. Who knows, for Xiao Niang, write a piece of paper.