The city extends northward.
In winter morning, I have to go out at half past six.
Take the bus first, and then transfer to the light rail.
If we are lucky, there will be a place.
In the crowded crowd
Think about life like a philosopher.
To go to work, you need to pass
Nan 'an, Yuzhong, Jiangbei and Yubei
Liangjiang new area
Going home requires crossing.
Liangjiang new area
Yubei, Jiangbei, Yuzhong and Nan 'an
Go home from work, 35 kilometers, unimpeded.
The minute hand should turn 1 10.
The unit went home, 37 kilometers, and it was smooth sailing.
The minute hand should turn 120 turn.
The city has been developing northward.
Some people say that he heard the sound of bone development.
Some people say that he saw masculine muscles.
I said I became a scarab in Fabres's works.
Crawling in the chest of the city every day
Except for eating.
Just look around with a pair of cold eyes
In the carriage in spring, I once saw
An old man was carrying a schoolbag and holding his grandson.
Someone offered his seat to him and the child sat down.
Old people laugh like flowers.
I saw it once at the ticket gate in summer.
Load bar
breathe noisily
Reminds me of my father's cattle farming in his hometown.
I once saw it on the platform in autumn.
After the 1990s, a large number of flashlights appeared.
Say "Juanjuan, I love you"
Let the walking girl panic.
Outside the window in winter, I once saw
A middle-aged man is crying.
No one to comfort, no one to stop.
The voice flashed away.
The city has been developing northward.
One kilometer from the office building is a huge park.
For three years, I have been enjoying the beautiful scenery through the glass window.
I thought, when are you free?
Breathe negative oxygen ions.
Last working day last year
After returning home, I slept on the construction site again.
I tied the bill to the platform.
How many times have I missed this year?
Eight or nine times, I really can't remember. ...
Sister Wu
Sister Wu with one eye has a pair of capable hands.
From Fengjie, the city of poetry, to the main city of Chongqing
Poems that can't be written in ten years
She doesn't know Li Bai, Du Fu and Liu Yuxi.
I don't know the rhythm of Zhi Zhu's ci.
Her manuscript lay at her feet.
Write elegies with both hands.
Poetry is unpretentious.
Write for ten hours every day
Enjoy the poet's loneliness alone
No one asked her the source of inspiration.
She didn't tell anyone either.
The fire pits and drying cages in my hometown are already very cold.
The cold wave surged last night.
Warm greetings from her untimely husband.
When you stop
In a rented house of more than ten square meters.
She will think of her son and daughter.
Think of the smiling faces of grandchildren.
At that time, she will smile as brightly as a child.
There is no indifference or anger in her poems.
Her poems will always be the spring flowers and red leaves in her hometown.
She is a one-eyed poet.
There are twenty studios in the main city.
Three homes a day, four times a month.
Creation time is ten hours every day.
There are steamed buns and water cups in her bag.
That's her lunch
She examines the impurity of the world with one eye.
Even a little bit of dirt.
Don't try to hide in her lines.
The clean rhythm is comparable to the cardamom girl.
Sister Wu is a cleaner.
It has been eight years since I cleaned the house.
Near the Spring Festival, my mother stuffed her with a pack of sausages.
She said it was too expensive. For oranges, she said that her teeth are afraid of acid.
She refused to pity and only trusted her own hands.
She said that when she looked at the cracked palm print, her mood became
Quiet and stable. She said, ten years.
There are two things you can't lose.
The bucket in your hand, the city around you
A night with the lights on.
That year into this year, a few staggered cold sweat dripping wet.
I was told that the gene editor was knocking at the door.
The newspaper editor pondered Beethoven's fate.
All right, then write a poem.
Thirty years ago, I was black, too
On a winter night, silent notes jump in the rain.
I found every line of verse under the keyboard
Ancient people write, modern people write.
What homesickness, love, joys and sorrows
Are repeating other people's stories
Inspired by the application
Robots are tireless.
Compile the text of a branch.
What homesickness, love, joys and sorrows
Decent, more poetic than a poet.
It is said that in the New Year's bell
A dozen newspapers are writing farewell speeches.
Some are long and some are short.
Some are ordinary, some are affectionate.
The most touching thing is that sentence:
Afraid of the dark, don't turn off the lights tonight.
Alpha dogs are invincible.
Li Shishi, Jack has surrendered.
Sichuan Putonghua, which pays attention to waiters, is drifting away.
5G soon, taxis will be unmanned.
The revival will be realized. ...
I entered this year that year and turned on the lights all night.
Clean tables and bookshelves.
My study is spotless.
Go to wash rice and boil water at dawn.
The first time I gave it to my 77-year-old mother.
Boiled a pot of winter amaranth porridge
The old man's eyes sparkled with stars.
She said breakfast was delicious.
Eat the rest at noon.
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