The dew is cold and the smoke is cold, the demon cultivator rides on a skeleton crane. The dark water is cold in autumn, the lights on the trick door are pretty, and the sinister sound has just arrived. I should think of Xiaoxiang, where flowers are blooming far away on the shore, beside Meng Po Bridge. Hope is extremely helpless, wandering and wanting to go down, relying on impermanence and the wind blowing.
You must send letters to the underworld thousands of miles away, who has a wife and a brocade book to burn and send. Nine levels of hell, diagonal and horizontal formations, tongues pulled out of the pan. In charge of the world, under the city of Fengdu, the shadow shakes the cold water. The shroud has not been smashed yet, the paper figurine has been brushed with a pestle, and its face is bloodless.
Reader comments
Good-looking, good-looking, good-looking, good-looking, five stars.
Good-looking, good-looking, good-looking, good-looking, five stars.