On the end of March an afternoon, a trace of irritability came to himself, collapsed, and felt that he would have to collapse. Write a word, talk to yourself, don't, I think, I am unfair to my heart, what is my heart, and I'm going up, and I am natural and cold? Don't want to talk to others again, because each time the result is a more self-blame. What is the life now? No, you can't calm down! ! ! ! ! ! ! Those days like the water seem to be farther and farther away from themselves, and the mood is always fluctuating: (the days of reading the book is also a long-lasting thing, the memory is getting worse, seeing the words always don't remember. Look A book is always like a cloud, I have seen it.
