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At the end of the bustling night sky, I was empty-handed, and I couldn��t hold a tear when I was sad. In the face of the mountains, I am infinitely embarrassed, and I have a tiredness in my life. "With all the poets who dream of being horses, the years are fleeting, and there is no drop. There is a horse in the water drop. The clear moonlight, how many times I want to go down the idea, always looking forward to someone who can feel the same feeling in the clear moonlight, on the vanilla mountain road, accompany me nonstop Going on the ground, going on, letting everything never change, the moment that never ends, changes all the proven simplicity, the feminine society makes all the ambiguous trajectories clear. Finally know what is Eternal. In addition to the countless stars, there is also a screen that will never be opened. The screen has long been the horn of the myth, but it does not see the simple and generous soul gradually becoming more and more complicated in its growth Marlboro Cigarettes. And sharp, constantly hurting yourself and others in all kinds of ties, angering and crying in the rotten air, but also learning to not regret." The most brilliant years of my life have already been cast In the icy cast iron, the body retains the impulse and call of stubbornness. In the life of the pig-like pig Marlboro Red, all the people who can't understand it are all marked by the gloomy tear lines. Every swaying face is There are no traces of joy and smile. On the mountain road that was hit by the light wind, under the swaying light of the Guanghua, in the pain of completeness and tranquility, it was found that the impulsiveness of the body and the screen that was covered by the call Newport Cigarettes, surrounded by another silence of silence, mixed with All kinds of thoughts of giving up. Whether it is life or a living heart. Slowly get used to smoking in the dark, shaking the pace of being burned, and the whistling reverberation from time to time. On the trembling tip, I dare not engrave my dreams. Facing the quiet horizon, ridiculously wrote a full lie about spring. On the poor cigarette but in the tired fingers, all hope of blowing in the deep clouds may be an excuse to stubbornly stay alone at the dusty intersection. Look at the yellow leaves that are scattered all over the place, whether it still writes a beautiful picture about spring. When all the good things turn into ash and burn out with the wind, some people will understand that the position that can stay in life is the loneliness that is entangled in a circle, and the empty silhouette reflected in the pure black pupil. Understand that this is the feeling of being at least alive. Many years have passed, I can still see the beautiful dusk, still want to yell at all this, but can't be like it used to. I have no reason to scream for export. I have no chance to stand in the curtain waiting for the darkness to swallow, and even begin to feel happy in the age of pain that can cry and shout. Today, I am here, watching every heartfelt dialogue, along the whistle of the pigeons, hoping to see the direction of the whiteness under the reflection of the lost. When I found that everything was too late to think, I was already ending in preparation for the pursuit. The icy room is quieter than the huts in the mountains, which makes people feel that there is something excessive. Perhaps it is the reason why the story is heard more, maybe it is the function of the heart, or the world has a crack that is not blocked, never any Things can stop its madness. The light died with a part of me, and the music took another part of me that was waiting to break out. Carrying the sad eyes and the bitter tears. When the whimpering moon blows up the ancient notes, and a breeze is collected into the dark plunder, Shen still wants to be the main melody of life. In the white cold light, the treacherous laughter floats back and forth in the white walls Cheap Cigarettes, and the translucent shadow is like a solitary fugitive who insists that everything happens in the night Newport 100S, ending in the night that does not belong to any day. Gradually, learn to write poems of life in every quiet night, while always obeying a promise that no one has vowed, accompanied by an incompatible world that has never forgiven me. Place, fall down. Let all the candlelight filled with faith be buried in a long dream.
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