Who knows how sad prose is? Send me some! It better be written by an adult.

In the dream, the heart is like a dream outside the dust, flowers bloom and fall, dancing; Throughout the ages, people have been walking around, but the past has passed. The moonlit night is cold, the dim light is cool, and the night wind outside the window is jingling bells, with a hint of melancholy and continuous sadness. Silent fingers, stroking the keyboard, grinding a pool of ink, recording all the episodes, paragraph by paragraph, quietly continuing. It burns a million feet of bitterness, filled with words of missing, and dotted with the ethereal shadow of attachment. Lonely midnight, there is a kind of pain, in a shallow smile, a faint book. In the lattice of the building, the prosperity of a lifetime is shaken down, and the love of a lifetime is lost silently. In short stories, the book is full of red dust and flowers. In the chapter of a mirage, there is no artistic conception of reincarnation. On the Sansheng Stone, I am used to seeing romantic scenery, but my desire for exquisite singing misses several beautiful scenery; Butterfly dance season, see the moss stained with frost. Leaning against the window and the moon, holding half an old word, but playing half a new song. At the moment when I passed the wind, my worries crept up my brow, lazy red beans and lazy sadness; The swaying shadow reveals the worries of the string moon and the loneliness of thin face. Silent fantasy, faint aftertaste, once bitter, once sweet, perhaps, there is always an inevitable fate in the four seasons of reincarnation. Through the clouds of the years, Chai Fei of yesterday was pushed away. This night, the brocade book was spread out, and there was no sorrow in the ink; On such a night, the hair is dancing and the sleeves are dancing. Gently pull a wisp of cold morning mist and pick up the antique Chinese New Year in the poem. The fragrance of flowers lingers between the eyebrows, and the sadness at the tip of the eyes is shallow, which is an irresistible charm. A wisp of delicate fragrance lingers, precipitates and diffuses between the fingers. All the way to Qingyun, an essay, an old story, an ink painting, detailing the past of a dream song. Prosperity is exhausted, and worldly joys and sorrows are broken. On the days of missing, I sat like a cloud, spreading silk scarves embroidered with things into the wind, twisting my sorrow into a strand and filling it into Tang poetry and Song poetry. A wisp of lonely memories hangs on the cold branches, separating the past disordered dreams with Leng Yan. Looking back suddenly, my hazy thoughts sang in time, listening to the sound of flowers blooming and the wind blowing off the branches, all the way through the lonely wind and dust. Moving words silently, doodling my mood with my hands, I feel so slender. Soft fingers are shuttles, rice paper is silk, woven into a heart net with thoughts, and a watchman is salvaged in the place where he once stayed. Grinding a Chi Mo, writing full of fallen flowers' worries and thoughts, and recording the lost plot as an eternal continuation; Gently pluck the strings full of things and sing thoughtfully with noisy sadness. Let eternal love, eternal love and eternal fate stretch in words and melodious in time and space. Qian Fan is tired and the old things are misty; Wandering in the bitter romance, wandering in the cold sunset; The glory of a thousand years, the promise of mountains and rivers apart, the mutual watch, and the lack of breeze on the other side planted a flash in the pan in the dream. The purple world of mortals spins like a butterfly, dancing with sleeves empty, tears fading, breaking scattered life into a smile. Gently dip in plain notes, between the lines, tossing and turning. Leaving a piece of sad and gorgeous paper, let the lost Gu Mo reappear vaguely on today's desk. Qian Fan's hope, distracted from life and waiting for the end, is just a story as soft as satin. Wandering steps are between prosperity and withering, on the edge of the night, watching flowers bloom and fall, flowers bloom and fall. With a faint sadness, staring at the distant face, alone guarding the loneliness of emotional cold tone, all the gatherings and parting are only a hopeless tear. Sad stories are always the most beautiful, but all the stories have become legends of gazing. Lonely without trace, who will pity this thin eyebrow curtain? The past is like smoke, turning over past memories, singing and reading, sighing. ...