Sorrow is like brocade, thoughts are like weaving, the world of mortals often ends and dreams remain forever. Looking back to see what was right and wrong, it was just a piece of broken music. It is difficult to find the flowing water in the east, but the beauty is still fresh in the world, and the pear blossoms cry like dew falling off the wall. Where is the trace? There is no one to cherish the loess.
The water sleeves are flicked, the rouge and makeup are blended, and the waves are shining. Tears filled with tears, it was really pitiable, but why would anyone wish for it?
Just write whatever you want