During the night, it is quiet. Always review every corner of the soul, no words, although there is no one in the dark, no one heard, but the soul of the soul is smashed. Thinking of my loneliness and lonely in the sun, I think this exclusive taste is only I can taste, because the joy has passed the years. I don't feel the past, the past, or have a distilandation of the dust, or have been embedded in the memory, only the child's nature of the childhood, still stubbornly calling my milk name, told me on the way to grow. He is hesitant, but it is helpless, this nostalgia, this nostalgic, it is better to say that there is no abandonment, the philosophical book of the day is absurd, and this is lacking that there should be inert. New friends, new old friends, gradually gradually be angry, strange faces continue to stuff, and laughter, laughter, laughter, but also in the ear, but the most in the ear is people's words I don't want to have a unintentional lie. Nostalgia, it is not intelligent, because there is no matter how beautiful it is, it doesn't exist, it is not a choice. It seems that this is what I am so unhappy, however, there is always a soft floccula in sighs "beauty It is here! ". Moonlight diarrhea in bed, although there is no warm feeling, but the heart is comfortable, as if the long halo is caressing the cheeks of the hot, caressing the inexplicable unfortunate, so that I feel the mother's eyes and whistlery In it ... 思 思 无 the margin spread, Ren Xinhai tide, this no regrets, I blame my own words in countless times, blame myself once I think no regrets, I don't know if this is growing. The price, I don't know how to feel this growing joy and trouble.
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