What is the poem that rubs the edge?

Some lines have been brushed aside: Coral is careful and steady. The branches of candlelight, pens and stones live together, but they cannot coexist with wind and rain. Every time you write a word, it immediately floats away. Every time I start thinking, I smell rags. I come back to life again and again depending on whether I practice my mouth in front of the same mirror, like a free fall. The wind under my arm vibrates and falls deep in the zero point, returning to the spiral of my own light. Once again or forever, I am dormant in my body, and the spark of a snake poem produces you like static electricity. Ask me where I am. I am between the last book and the next. We can't see anything behind the ink in chapter six. Now my father is leaving. His figure is getting thinner and thinner. Drugs are flowing rapidly along translucent blood vessels. I cut him a pear in a good temper. Xiao Li's heart is crying in my palm. Other dead people appeared from the fog. My mother is younger than me and denies me as a middle-aged father. He often talks with himself with his eyes. The tea is neither hot nor cold, and the words are missing from the pot. It's very cold. Sometimes there will be slight sputum shadow, expecting to coincide with the body. My soul peeped out from the inside and saw that rust was attacking my father. I can't help feeling sad. Although the word sadness is dead, the warmth associated with it makes modern people ashamed to say it. Just like paper money that has been circulated several times, many words have been publicly invalidated before being heated. The dictionary has withered like a fallen leaf on Bodhi Avenue overnight in late autumn, and there is no regret. The sky is lonely because of their collective exit, and it is painful to learn from it. Only the most delicate light green is scraped off by the eventful tip. Every day is an experience. How does the soul avoid the double death of body and vocabulary? I will be dismembered and sealed behind my father's heavy door. The poet's independent existence must endure the constant betrayal of his limbs. Father, death is a more hidden place than life.

Some lines have been brushed aside: Coral is careful and steady. The branches of candlelight, pens and stones live together, but they cannot coexist with wind and rain. Every time you write a word, it immediately floats away. Every time I start thinking, I smell rags. I come back to life again and again depending on whether I practice my mouth in front of the same mirror, like a free fall. The wind under my arm vibrates and falls deep in the zero point, returning to the spiral of my own light. Once again or forever, I am dormant in my body, and the spark of a snake poem produces you like static electricity. Ask me where I am. I am between the last book and the next. We can't see anything behind the ink in chapter six. Now my father is leaving. His figure is getting thinner and thinner. Drugs are flowing rapidly along translucent blood vessels. I cut him a pear in a good temper. Xiao Li's heart is crying in my palm. Other dead people appeared from the fog. My mother is younger than me and denies me as a middle-aged father. He often talks with himself with his eyes. The tea is neither hot nor cold, and the words are missing from the pot. It's very cold. Sometimes there will be slight sputum shadow, expecting to coincide with the body. My soul peeped out from the inside and saw that rust was attacking my father. I can't help feeling sad. Although the word sadness is dead, the warmth associated with it makes modern people ashamed to say it. Just like paper money that has been circulated several times, many words have been publicly invalidated before being heated. The dictionary has withered like a fallen leaf on Bodhi Avenue overnight in late autumn, and there is no regret. The sky is lonely because of their collective exit, and it is painful to learn from it. Only the most delicate light green is scraped off by the eventful tip. Every day is an experience. How does the soul avoid the double death of body and vocabulary? I will be dismembered and sealed behind my father's heavy door. The poet's independent existence must endure the constant betrayal of his limbs. Father, death is a more hidden place than life. Structure: wipe (left and right structure) edges (semi-closed structure). The pinyin is: cā biā n. The phonetic notation is: ㄘㄚㄅㄢ.

What is the specific explanation of wiping? We will introduce you through the following aspects:

I. Text Description Click here to view the details of the plan.

Erase, erase, cābiān, cābiānr. (1) grazed the edge. Metaphor is crucial to a certain value.

Second, the network interpretation

Scratch the edges. Metaphor is the abbreviation of "edge ball", which is very important to a certain value. Xiao Li didn't get married until 30 edges.

Idioms about rubbing.

Wipe fist, palm, ass, face, arm, fist, palm, gun, shoulder, back, fist, palm, one ear goes in and one ear goes out.

Words about rubbing

Sharpen, gun, fist, palm, fist, palm, shoulder to shoulder, arm to shoulder, face to face, palm to palm, ball to the opposite side, drum powder.

Make sentences on the edge

1, Tong Zhilong introduced that during the initial unannounced visit, the Municipal Commission for Discipline Inspection found that some leading cadres played the sideline, such as staying in the office while on duty and finding someone to replace them.

2, but this rule and other bonds form a marginal zone, which makes people want to play the edge ball.

The primary reason why this kind of lottery trap is repeatedly banned is that they exploit the loopholes of the law by playing the edge ball.

4. Economics and finance major is like a panacea. Basically, even the marginal economic industries involved can take office.

5. Life flies like a ball, and summer is over in a blink of an eye.

Click here to see more details about erasure.