The carved leaves in the West City have fallen again, and I see a xylophone without paint again. It has disappeared for a long time, and its purple luster has finally worn away.
The graceful sound of the piano and the warm and clear voice have never been forgotten. Even the storyteller did not mention a word about these scattered and scattered poems about the memory, until those who knew could no longer talk about it, so that those who did not know would no longer know.
She said, I don't care if you take poison. It's hard to distinguish between love and hate, and the heart-rending pain that sometimes involves it can easily follow the fiery red wedding dress into the earth. No one will touch me again, or I can't even remember the touch.