In the summer when peach blossoms are sweating, they are like a piece of toffee in the mouth, sticky and sweet, and slowly melt. Walking in the high temperature in summer, such as stepping on the soft beach, one foot deep and one foot shallow, can't correct one's steps. The retreating sea, like the voice, always tries to take you to your dreams. At this time, if there is a gust of wind, it must be a lost child who came to the fork in the road on this day. I prefer to believe that the noon wind comes from dreams, such as tide, lazy and far away. At this time, we are leaning under a carambola tree, sleepy. Rooted in dreams, breathing is as lush as this carambola tree. This dewdrop-like breath, the dream is wet and makes it sink deeply. I don't know how to wake up. The carambola, with unbroken green hair and fallen flowers to pass the time, is the residual breath in the hot summer days. I stubbornly believe that there is no tree bigger than carambola, and my mind is more detailed and complicated than carambola. It can turn flowers full of trees into leisurely flowers. Soon, the green carambola will cover its forehead like sweat. Always unwilling to be lonely, flowing. How can its uninterrupted flowering and fruit be lively and ordinary? Children who love painting will dig out all the solid purple pigments and put them on the branches in large groups. The greedy bird pecked east and west with its pointed beak, but the trace of filar silk quietly embraced itself and split into small flowers. Then, diluted by the clear crow, the delicate core dared not grow timidly. A carambola tree, while flowering, is rushing to drop flowers. As long as you sit under the tree, in an instant, the book spread out between your knees, the lines outlined in black ink, are stained with a touch of lavender and reddish, like a little glow oozing from light gray clouds, and like the ideas in the book shining with clusters of small sparks under your careful taste. Clear branches bear a fierce and sad flower: open, lively and colorful; Autumn, there is no turning back, quiet and calm, without disturbing a trace of wind. The summer wind stirred the heart of the carambola and dyed it red and purple. The summer sunshine makes the cheeks of the carambola tree blush, like you turn around shyly. Lavender flowers forget a section of fragrance, layer upon layer, pursuing the footsteps of finely divided leaves. Every time a leaf grows, it will be accompanied by a pain of gouging out the heart. How euphemistic should a story have this tree full of leaves to cover up the loneliness of the branches? Stare up. I grew up quietly, without making noise, as if I didn't know anyone. Bowing your head and dozing off, a flower with two flowers flutters and falls in the folds of your lavender skirt, as if water drops had melted into the lake and could never be found again. Like a silent tear, the voice stirred the heartstrings of the broken tears. Fall in the black hair, so thick black can't swallow that scarlet, but let it openly show its heart. The sunshine dripped from the branches one by one, and I couldn't bear to leave the tiny flower shadow. Like breathing and dreams, like tides and beaches, like you and me. Time is in my sleep, please slow down, slow down again, don't worry, I just take a nap in a misty sleep. Why let a flower bloom in a hurry and thank you without any retention? You know, the branches are still warm, and my dreams need to be savored. Please don't lengthen the shadow of memory, it is the way to leave your dream. Before the invasion of dusk, how can I squander this summer noon dream at one time in the pursuit and rush? How can I consume this prepaid love at one time before you turn around? Escape and be forgotten by love. Generally, it is best to choose prose with strong story or poetry with rich emotional expression.
Such a manuscript can attract the judges and is easy to grasp.