Ah, it is said that this is the hole I dug on August 2, 2012? = =|||
I don't have a clue about the copywriting at the moment, so I'll start by reading Mr. Lin's poems to make up the numbers, and I'll revise them later when I feel like it.
The elegance is withered but this old man is still here. A smile in the drunken country is useless. The floating clouds in Yiguanluoshe have dispersed, and Gong Cambridge Mountain has fallen into the sky. There are ancient walls with books in Donglu, and there are no trees in West Lake to hold back the spring breeze. Carts of scarves never cross Qinghua North, and sorrow blows from the corner of the city to send off the dusk.