You're lucky

Late at night, sit in the case, the first snow of the season in the fantasy, the drifting profusely and disorderly in a casual day,, falling in the vast land, like a beautiful encounter, always inadvertently appear, that moment, just silent for thousands and thousands of words, not a mind that sense of emotional, only intentions, with the eyes, to feel everything.

A song, bitter Sauvignon Blanc, thin figure; a cup of wine, a broken man heart, into the dream. As the years of vicissitudes, the ups and downs of any time, my heart. The lasting pledge, I will deliver; the everlasting promise, I will remember.

In the thick of the ink, depicting a fool, carve very Huan worry. Who in the past who discovers from destruction, whose future floating on who half myth. Who, who always think constantly of, a road full of silently conveyed tenderness. Waiting to exhale, just know, you are already in my pillow, you have occupied my mind.

Love is deep, deep meaning, a charming moonlight, let mind wander, enjoy the happiness of time, open the warm memories, in mind, some lingering deep two personal meaning, profound thoughts to warm the hearts of two people.

Gazing at the office, write a poem for you, Bo you give a pleasant smile of a woman; ideal setting for a couple in love, for you during a painting, but you three thousand hair in trouble; walk hand in hand, as you recite a minor, the elimination of the life of loneliness and solitude; it blossom, pipe it Yunjuanyunshu, dreams, I take care of you, you smile like spring breeze, we make a sightseeing tour, Guse blowing Sheng, romantic, happy; the outside of the dream, is a living, to strive for the ideal, more gentle, more happiness, simply because there have mutual affinity., with mutual heart.

In the corner in time, cherish the memory of the millennium ago agreement, after thousands of years of our dream. From the vast universe, his words like a plum to open in the white dust there, in your heart, so, I will.

Is the depths of winter, standing in the season, the fragrance is a bouquet of flowers, with your one thousand one night. Because of you, my life is like a song, through southern Hebei; because of you, my life is more like a poem, the poem was a life of sorrow, a dream of happiness; because of you, I have my everything.

You know, just because the world bridge side the same life and death, only to the world of mortals in a pure love, I practice for thousands of years, the whole world is forgotten, can not forget you, let it six samsara, that the tunnel of time cannot erase my memories of you.

You know, time to take my life, have deepened my love for you, undivided attention, forever.

You know, your name, my lips, the abyss -- my heart.

You know, just because your heart has not changed, only because of your love has not changed, only because is, and your heart this winter, I was the snow flying in your world, wish you well!

Do not know the direction of time, let the young time is fleetingblack bedroom furniture.

Do not understand time pursuit, let the young ideal fire burned out.

Do not understand the vicissitudes of time, those years use a pencil to write down the youth slowly fade the original traces.

The dream for many years, want to take the words written in pencil to me the ideal of life at a full. But I wonder if those ideals will be time to forget to write. I put those shallow mark copying, found that even capable of reproducing the grand ambitions, but can not go back to the past time. Look at their copying out type, the former has regained the crooked way, replace sb. is the neat rows of modern body. Open the youth writing type, lead ash erase those clean pages, now and then hand rub, palm and lead ash traces, is happy, think back to the past, but found it was that day care is not black not wash off. Good grief, memory can be copied, and the past can not come again. Put those books for ten minutes, sigh, finally general weakness weakness on the floor, let your thoughts across the ocean, then to the past that I have forgotten all should remember. Eyes looking at the walls of the quartz clock, pointer has been in a clockwise rotation, a second, two seconds, three secondsiPad cover.....

The season of youth, a pencil stand on tiptoe to see us, slowly approached my life. When the poor life, I deeply love the pencil, write with it, use it for painting, with its "bookkeeping" (a small partner of a few cents a debt)... Almost replaced almost life. Back then pinch of the day, a pencil and two or three cm long at that time, hand cannot hold are looking for to science, a segment of the mill off (with a knife carved in a circle, and then press the knife roll in the ring. Because bamboo is hollow, it is easy to burst, so very careful, force should be controlled very well), then put the pencil sleeve in the hole on the side. If some art feeling, but also in the bamboo engraved with some words, such as "Study hard, day day upwomen clothing hk.".

Shadow moving with the wind, go with time and age. I walk alone in the time tunnel, walk, look, come to an end only to find it was a clapboard. The board was put me in the way, back to my youth feel helpless, lost youth leave only the memory of the shadow, that may open the memory, although full of lead dust, but that has been past.

The old wall also left I had a pencil tip. Leaned forward, gently wipe the thick layer of soil, "the three words of the Chinese brand" is still so clear, the gold is shining golden light. Touched the pen tip, I think of mother's purse, that is filled with a hair, two hair, five hair bag, black bag that handmade. Remember that when a pencil is finished for mother to change. As long as it is said that reading to buy pencils money she wouldn't give, and because of that, I am timid, several times to cheat mother said to buy a pencil. The first two she believed in me, but I couldn't resist the temptation to snack mouth, no money, the natural mother to find the mother, later I found record, so early to buy a bunch of pencil, my mouth itch incredible.

In those years, those days are gone. When I was holding a pencil here, is a pencil with. Forget the memories, not pencil impression, can not forget the juvenile type.

Occasionally, flighty and impetuous, a myriad of thoughts, to settle in ordinary days, floating objects like water in time, flat wave static precipitationnuskin hong kong. Water becomes clear, the heart becomes quiet and beautiful.

There is no class this afternoon, noon to eat is not the canteen in people when it myself to eat, walk down the dormitory will encounter two or three meal to come back to studentsSamsung Note 3 cases, through the playground, playground lawn is green without yellowing, more rain this season, a lot of moisture vegetation, trees and verdant Campus. Ah. Two days ago, the typhoon "Hai Yan" wind and rain umbrella, we eat out umbrella to wind, clothes wet feeling cold, change clothes without washing, dormitory corridor was the rain come in, campus where trees blown look pleased with oneself, the rain stopped after school on stump leaves scattered everywhere. But today the breeze, but the sky is fluttering clouds clouds, the sun hid in the clouds, to brilliant light fromMen clothing wholesale. See the dormitory balcony wind fresh leaves floating, as if the boat in the calm surface of the lake.

Noon meal, sitting at the table playing mobile phone, see QQ talk about, boys and girls feelings always revealed in say, I often do not touch the professional booksscrapbooking storage, the book on the desk is still silent, although I have plenty of time, but I was not interested in these books, not for a whileCHINESE MEDICENT, I the heart has nothing to rely on to become lonely boring, climbed into bed and lie down, sleep for a while, the mood is goodWomen fashion.

There are always some words, moist in the chest, one side brocade PA also wipe away thoughts; always has an umbrella, hiding behind a tree, quietly for you through the rainy season; there is always some people, each other there, but quietly inadvertently reminded, fan point in hand count the stars. That man, that view, the friendship, love in there, miss at night.

Distance is hazy distant, that partition the meet, will be in the new face. Forget the old people, however, that cup of tea in memory of the old, more long more mellow, even the memories are whirling sweet. Even the table aside coffee is bitter, not tea qinfang.

Rain writing brush, passion, across palm tears freezing scattered in the wind, but his body inside, with emotion; remember that time, walk together, tell the romantic vision of youth; remember the frame pledge, even if married women, also want to miss to friendship. The picture, has long, did not mark, but never forget.

Their wandering, their sky, respectively. The busy time, occasionally forget, forget to send a postcard; but when you want to cry, always want to borrow their shoulders, like a Changan jour like chatter without stop to talk; to laugh, shout will also carry a skirt like magpie. Perhaps, in the heart, they will always be that little harbor, let the shore skyline.

The White Dew, under the simple and elegant, into the depths of red dust, across a city under siege, the soles of the feet is covered with dust, also got into the wind; the broken bridge, still; the moon, still; the face, but faded memories with color. Can poke memory fences, the Wang Lun mood, still deep pools of peach.

Meet, is the edge of love, is love. Once we understand each other, to build the crescent bridge, water under the bridge without rest, song continuous bridge. As time flying, we will look back to the long bridge, walk away, will go back to my youth.

Not to forget, but deep; not to know, but is willing to accommodate; at that time, did not let me miss, but the heart but remember that friendship; the rainy season, not sent to the umbrella, but utterly routed message to my mind; that afternoon, did not send letter, but sent miss. But, I really miss.

The rearview mirror, the window, across the landscape is heavy, the figure of the past thousands on thousands of back, always inadvertently, in search of the familiar looking for wiping, wanton together; but they are not, they like me, are passing, in the red rovers, each other..

In the deep night, listen to songs, tears, even if someone pass paper towel, to help wipe the tears, but still miss the rainy season; in the light the stage, dancing, continuous applause, even praise sound over the rolling sea, but always feel sorry, not the innocent.

A silhouette of a tree, war, miss a paper. The text is tender, affective Lake shallow. Years no longer, Shaohua evanescent, each packed that beautiful, unwilling to resolve the robbery, just want to miss you bless each other, static good, joan.

Perhaps, for a long time can not meet again; perhaps, side also has a new landscape; perhaps, flowers or pity no one; but, Ping water dependent moved will precipitate in a teacup, flies the clouds, quietly waiting.

Speaking of my hometown, I will think of Feng Zikai's masterpiece "people scattered, the new moon day like water", the picture is a summer balcony, wooden table lay a pot of tea, semi disabled not old a few tea, stand aside, leaving a crescent moon, hanging in the high cold rolled bamboo side. Screen is simple without losing the poetic, large areas of white, Zen emptiness, such night, read to Bai Juyi "the night I heard the young things, her tears in the dream at the red", suddenly reminded me of my deep nostalgia.

All the home is home, the home is just our ancestors wandering journey over the last station. They stopped running, some tired, sad, more with the foot of land somewhere in the margin, that makes them descendants deeply rooted, let the family life as an integral part of the long chain. Their descendants still far away from the home, but this kind of homesickness complex, is the city of agricultural origin of peasant children, life can not forget.

Away from home for several years, thought that the memory of her will in the years of migration in the fading memories, but after a considerable period of time, but like the Jiangnan Spring faint haze weather, wet, wet adhesion in the heart, heart eight hundred meters home, always fresh.

This weekend, I sat on the bus bound for home, go to my hometown, there is a slight movement of the morning breeze, bright sunshine, the dense foliage, have withered vines, trees, flowers, insects and crow, children, and the sun rising wave of smoke, and the hearts of the juvenile smile face.