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Dreaming about the flowers of thousands of trees, turning a curtain of red dust away, imitating a flower to open, let the warm night pass away. I know that you are a strand of very light selected by the years, only wandering at the end of the pen, not at the heart of the water. Who is the fragrance of writing and smelling when we meet? Fill out the sadness of the past and let the crying sand fill the veil of life. Perhaps, you are my only miss the cloud butterfly, chase my final miss. In the languishing words, my Weixin flutters in the tremor of youth study, let a thread of thoughts send each other, and return to the place where the soul is placed.
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