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In the dream world

A crescent, in accordance with the sky and hanging, Huang Yingying crescent with a hazy fog yarn, durian, such as no clear beginning makeup as simple and elegant. The starship, randomly dotted the vast twilight, with a deep and vast, weft winding this autumn night the crescent moon, setting a lovesick heart. At the moment, the quiet beauty, a moon beckons in early autumn, late, add a bit of cool charm.

A ray of light breeze, with scattered residual red, in the solitude of the night sky dance a costume, a song from the war. Confused neon lights flickering extremely lonely, lost, like thinly cover face bleak, stood by the window, and fencing, lady g, like singing, an appealing the elegy.

Micro cold cool slowly from the lattice, bit by bit penetration in the heart, abandoned in the morning breeze and the lingering moon in her sad, come, real pain then wound on the fingertips. Inkstone ink pen, twist a paper in paper, artificial life regret, such as silk missing haunt you walk away you end, ink stained red, but not write all about you.

Late at night, people in. The shadow under the green light, here too, with a wisp of ink, the fiber street dust, using fingertips flickering out past, mottled writing endless red rangers. That year, I think your writing on a paper sentiment long, profound friendship, even in his paper, black and white pure bearing, how fleeting quiet joy. Naive dream, in younger years in singing, known to all corners of the country 's brave, is a fantasy in diffuse injuries, the paper and ink pad, filled with love.

However, nowadays, time flies, a song from the war, half the world: love, already frustrated, drops of ink into the wounds of desolation, all strokes into float away past. The two lines of tears, sadness irrepressible desolate, a pen, a drop of ink, has been hard to write love.

I hurt to regret, regret, after several years in memory, in a few words on paper. A que word, a poem, a paper, ink stained red the horizon, lingering sadness, book all of the joys and sorrows of parting. Look, I know; through the red dust, read, if you wander, peace of mind. Midnight, not tired of reading. Night, lonely silence; months, sad, lonely sad desolate.

Wild rice paper can not write in a warm time, lonely Biduan untold now from the war. You put the dream of youth to forget, I will be Secretary of dye ink fleeting; many prosperous vast, with the touching song sing; much as the past, with slender Psalms tell talk. Shear constant yearning, write endless pain, sad memories, in the palm of the grains grow crazy here, hold a pen, have been carved with all of your imagination.