Time flies, time flies, in the mirror of time, we all recall our happiness. That true self, because of the aftertaste, always walks unevenly in the ballad of time with a lonely fragrance, and keeps copying and pasting. Rushing water, like ice in the palm of your hand, will eventually melt in different temperatures and dreamland. Those beautiful and simple things, as time goes by in a hurry, are like dreams, like dreams falling, autumn leaves falling and floating in the wind.
A fleeting and haggard pen, every chapter that touches the heart. The past cities are still singing the wind; Flowers fall in the dream, who blurs the line of sight? Those dusty and mottled shadows on the other side are lonely. I have used loneliness countless times to cover up the heart lake intertwined with tears. Time flies to the end of August, and the dream of youth and decadence has blurred my eyes in hesitation. In the corner of my heart, I had a sad conversation for a season, so that the story ended with a full stop of memory.
Wandering all the way, with the enchanting solo heart, I always think of countless familiar pictures, and tears flow out of my heart, as if every time I wander between the lines, the lines are so lonely, and the cool wind invades the mood of those sad eyes. Panicked thoughts spread the familiarity in the story countless times, and the strangeness in the bustling transit remained pale in the end. The luggage of the past turns yellow, turning up the pure white in the dream. The time has passed, as if I have been dressing up for the story.
The noisy city, criss-crossing footsteps, people in a hurry, blank eyes, the rest of the way home. Every landscape, unfamiliar and familiar, repeatedly interprets the magical passage of time. Dreaming of the past, the memory is warm and prosperous; Insist on a dull, indifferent, in the face of countless want to say, as if never say it. In time, freshness is the bitterness of life; In order to share the joy of success, I am destined to be tired for myself, cry for myself and hurt myself.
Fanghua wasted a long time, looking at the long road in memory, too many strange languages, unable to express the most complete expression. Every time I walk between the lines, I hide a tear of time. In the face of the aging of the years, I keep repeating the meeting and parting in the story. Meeting is a gathering, and parting is a bit complicated. Standing between time and years, staring at the clouds in the world, tears lingering, looking for the lost track of the years without hesitation.
The winding years are passing away, and autumn has come. Many memories remind me of the past. Remember; That year, the autumn wind and drizzle, maple leaf residual red, shaking the innocent years we walked with the shadow. Messy mood, always in the depths of memory, engraved with our past, those once beautiful and barren days, always thought it would be a long time and never change, but in the ballad of time, we will eventually go to a busy stranger, just like a song, without news for a long time.
Memory, deep and shallow trajectory, with all the memories, covered with dusty vicissitudes, with a few grains of dust, runs through black and white. Too much nostalgia and sinking, in the blink of an eye, flowing down the pen tip, across the lines. How many days can I start over? The road we walked, the scenery we walked, all left behind. In the journey of life, the distance is endless. Listening to the songs of time and watching the shadows of the years pass through your fingertips only adds a sad sigh.
Listening to the years like a song, time goes by. Those old days of famine, depression and lost time were touched by homesickness, just like the wind blowing leaves dancing, and the residual leaves disturbed several dreams and prosperous things, and the sad feelings extended intermittently, filled with sadness and sorrow. Countless traces of dreams exist, stained with the old hands of time, the past sung in the world of mortals, the lost love of years, the mottled and broken shadow of time, and the faint sadness, thus shuttling through the dark loneliness, listening to the years like songs and watching the time flow.
In the quiet corridor in the dark night, the vast sky in the distance caresses the heartstrings, and the swaying years, like the past that can't be returned, have contracted an expired dream, so that the taste of loneliness and sadness is brewing bit by bit in the heart, and the customary notes flow in the dim and broken shadow. I like listening to music and closing my eyes. I always recall the feelings left in my mind. There is a feeling that it can be a long time, and there is a yearning that is far away. I don't know how many times, in the night without people, tears fell without hesitation.
Time flies, the years are full of pain, a kind of shallow sadness, full of stationery, and the color depicted seems to be always sad words, vague, but never going back. Most of the time before, I accepted the beauty given by life in an anxious and disorderly way. Hiding in the silent corner, soothing the pain, time has imprisoned the vicissitudes of life, the sound of the years has run aground, and I have lost my mind that once lingered in the soft season. Rendering blank time, stumbling all the way, with time; Drift away.
Listening to years like songs, time goes by, youth is like this, happy, laughing. When we meet and leave, time will always pierce everything beautiful, but we don't know where the next stop will appear in the beautiful scenery. Pick up the dream, recall the past that once made us miserable, climb mountains and wade, and recall the wonderful success and regret in disappointment; Regret and regret. The cycle of years is to let the strong temper experience joy, bitterness and joy; It's a heart, sometimes it needs gentle comfort. Sometimes you need to remember deeply. Listening to the years like a song, time goes by.
Youth is the scenery we have been chasing. In the face of smiles and tears, in time, we hold hands tightly, stick to the fragrance of life, and never give up the pursuit of dreams. In the Loulan of the years, sometimes approaching, facing the distant road, I always believe that everything, whether clear or vague, is in a trance, and there are always unforgettable fragments, which are the marks left by the years on the title page. After several twists and turns, I keep running on the long shore of time.
In the long river of years, I rushed to the future in difficulties and hardships. Every time I pass the crossroads of life, my hesitant thoughts bear the burden of my heart. Every step seems to miss the most beautiful scenery on the road. In the world, many gorgeous and dazzling temptations are wrong choices. So I'm used to it. I have used the brush of years, with the call of memory, to draw a water rhyme of the passage of time. The ups and downs in life come and go in a hurry. many-hued can't catch anything, but time is singing and the years are still fragrant.