Prosperity is a dream. The pillow is full of clear water, and the mottled thoughts flowing through it are the ripples in the world of mortals, and the fallen dust is the passing smile of the flower. The love picture of you and me is frozen in the depths of my eyes. After all, things in this world are so helpless after all. Even if there are beautiful carved pens and thousands of layers of cursive paper, how can the writing last forever? I recited fragments of poems, fragments of sentences engraved with memories, there was a slanting wind and drizzle, and sparse flowers fell. When I looked around, I saw the sky full of desolation and desolation. No hatred, no trace.
Conception: