Some books are read repeatedly whenever and wherever you have time, and the process of rereading each time is not only as simple as the voice of your heart, but also the pleasure of rereading.
Looking through old memories, trying to find some of your breath, as it turns out, I did it. But it's not you now. Your smile and your spoil have disappeared in the past time.
There is a book waiting to be read; There is a guitar, waiting to be plucked; There is a bunch of flowers, waiting to be appreciated; There is a cup of tea, waiting to be tasted. Let go of the important things and take care of the trivial things that have been shelved in your heart. That is the source of life nutrients.
The waves of time, looking through the lingering thoughts in memory, hand in hand with the ebb and flow of the years. Wandering on the edge of waking up, picking up a fallen flower, let eternal memories pass through the fragrance of ancient and modern reincarnation, and finally, precipitate in the clouds of years.
You read his life record, follow in his footsteps, feel his joys and sorrows, feel happy for his happiness, and feel disappointed for his melancholy. You read his words, appreciate his talent, like to listen to him talking and laughing, like to be close to his feelings, and even be overjoyed because he is willing to talk to you. This is love.
Read your mind like water, let go of your tenderness and twist acacia into a fragrant pen and ink for you. It is poetic, full of fragrance, like a clear tea, refreshing fragrance, gently sprinkled on your fingertips, you can savor it. This beautiful freehand brushwork picks up acacia and gives it to you from afar. It is covered in colorful nights, so that you can miss it gently and shallowly in the empty night.
Stop reading, you fell into the agarwood in yesterday's story; Don't guess your intentions in the love chapter; I don't need to know what kind of journey you have. I only know that the encounter of this journey has warmed you and me under the sky of words. It is such a clear heart and such a touching you, all because of words and feelings. You and I have never failed the gift of fate. So, how can I guarantee you a safe life?
I can't remember how many nights, when I was leafing through the paper, it slipped through my fingers; I can't remember how many candles turned to ashes under my gaze. After the death, I always hear the echo of my commitment to life, and feel that the flow of years is gradually diluting my youth and ignorance. I wish I were a clockwound clock, keeping every moment of my enrichment in the flow day and night.
Youth is a book without words. Every time you read it, you will leave traces of staying. Every time I grow up, I will hide a little secret. Between the lines is full of sorrow and joy. In a daze, childhood has become youth. In India and China, youth is a caring image. From then on, the pages of youth were less laughter and more sadness, branded with pure crazy and dreamy feelings.