The rain in the south of the Yangtze River is erratic, sad and lingering, like a veil, blurring the vows of lovers holding hands together, like a curtain, blocking the sinister hidden under the smiling faces.
Why never get hurt? Only to avoid permanent injury.
The kite in my memory fell too hastily and disappeared into the weeds, never to be found again. It was as if a heavy fog had arisen all around, and the people around him turned into smoke in an instant. Panicked and overwhelmed, he backed away, but lost his footing and fell into the dark abyss.
The pain of cutting her skin resurrected the blood of revenge. She smiled beautifully and carefully put on rouge in front of a square mirror.
After a shower, how many flowers have fallen? But all the flowers are flying away, and the ground is red, as sad as blood. The sound of the flute in the wind is still the same as before.