Love life, to love of the survivors idle dream _66

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Love life, to love of the survivors: idle dream dust

Love life, to love survivors
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????????????????? Original starting in 2007-12-06?? Popularity: 11898 changing of the seasons, the end is a Chinese fertilizer Qiushi. Easy to burn the winter,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but only by a skinny pen, pick up the text of the framework, supporting a number of put shortage of memories. Thin broken pieces.
Wind. Through the window at the end. Ruffled collar,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], how warm the heart of winter hatched. When the fan is sand erosion of Ginkgo biloba, and I walk in the clouds of high-speed road. Burning The red, drunk in the village, in a gesture of aphasia to the last touch of factors. Was split down the stakes, the wind in exile, waiting for a sight of the meaning bud.
Rain. The nest is another point, dripping. High nest, cold heart. Rain struck, they go where the hide? Charred, the goose feather devout wash the dawn. Rolling the eyes, cut open the spring in February. Some pink petals, deep in the end, slowly waking up, face flushed a drunk.
Cloud. Is a string of balderdash ambush of the quilt. Black hair fell carelessly when I look at the way the whispers: Clouds of cold, flowing river edge of the village, in the end of October, eating orchids beautiful words. A Blue Bird, in the clouds whine, go home the road, a strange anomaly. I lift light lighting, forget Stick, also between the fingers of clouds with a light *.
Mt. Mountain rain, they were panic spilled ink painting. Accidentally fall in the crevice between the voice of the moss grow. Some happy songs still holding off the red,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], whispering. Poetry heart fell to the stone jump, very crisp. A tree as evidence, a small swing Manshan Huang, woven out of the thoughts of the net. I'm trapped in the net, can not tell that one is out of the hole. Smoke dim eyes, choked out, not tears, is a drop leaf child Zaibu Dong Qing.
Light. Quiet. Open in the winter, there is depression of the pale. A leaf, rubbing his red hands, like a child do something wrong, quietly waiting for pleasure. I know that some of the beautiful mood during filling, the only lonely after flash in the pan. Some scattered light, shivering light years, the dead branches in the wind, hang strings of lanterns, watching the road occasionally been indifferent.
Things too. All is not heavy. A thin layer of years, but this can not be left behind. If, there is next life, I will kaleidoscope season, guarding about. No migration habits, or in situ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], to an ancient code word, in your field oval,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], softly. I am you.