West Lake. Night. Tipsy.
The soothing electric guitar, the gentle wind, and the handsome Waiter singing under the dim light. . . Feeling a little drunk.
Time stands still and the smell of love is in the air. Just looking at you like this, there is a kind of confusion in his eyes.
I haven't had such a simple mood for a long time. Ye Weiyang, the Irish coffee in her hand smelled like the fermentation of tears in the story, and she accidentally choked on it.
It seemed like a shadow was approaching, refracted in the moonlight filtered by the treetops. The slightly sour smell like lemonade sways your little bit of intoxicating smile in our world.
When the song ends and everyone disperses, no trace can be found. The fleeting memory will still be here tomorrow.
West Lake. Night. Tipsy.
We are working hard to dig out new pits~~Looking forward to everyone's arrival!
Conception: