Sails up the thoughts, ripples

Where are you now? No, no news from the far seas. Drawing your silhouette, everyone I meet in the end of the world, is not like you, so gentle, so gentle to give me sweetness.

The ruins we love, sunk deep into the seabed, in the darkness, I am afraid that it is only a person who is thinking alone. The fickle weather of the four seasons will always disrupt all the good plans, and in the silent words of the head down, in the vast red dust, you can't pick up a single you.

Maybe you'll also wander the rainy houses, lamenting how to get out of a silent iron door. A rusty iron door imprisons a soul that yearns for a distant place, to chase you and follow you to the end of the world.

Listening to the proverbs in the wind, words and words of love, can you be moved to tears? Pull up the solid color handkerchief, wait for love to overflow the eye sockets, but also with the warmth of affection, soaking the fingertips, the sensitivity of a soft heart!

Hoe the weeds in front of and behind the house, just to convince you that how the world changes and is desolate, and that I, who love you, have never been drowned in the flow of time.

In the face of the overwhelming tide, I was washed like a chicken in the soup, and even in the end there was only some background of life left, you can still trust, that weak breath, is the pull of fate, waiting for your induction, pray to be listened to! The disaster of turning the rain has never really been erased, and this firm heart has never been truly erased.

It is the courtesy of love, the dedication of a mountain of majesty, and the brave you, will surely trek through the mountains and rivers, and smooth my undulating heart! Climb to the top, pluck off a ray of the stars, hang in front of the window in the silent night, when the whispering does not stop, comfort me to wake up early, is your patience.

Pointing to the end of the dream is the path of reality. Idle clouds revealed a serene look, no matter how high the mountain, no matter how deep the water is, it is not enough to be afraid, after the water is steaming, it is just a mountain of distant ethereal, absorbing the deep and quiet of a ravine.

He pinned the song of youth on his loud throat, emotional place, and choked on the unspeakable. Night after night of time passed, but failed to find a best way out for love. The anger that reverberated between the valleys finally turned into silence, dissolved into a wide river, and never asked about the world, resolutely going east!

Can a tree of fragrant melons and fruits retain a hasty wanderer? How long has he not seen the food color of the world, and how long has he not tasted the fragrant fruit of the world. One bite down on the fireworks of the human world, but the corners of the eyes were smoked to tears.

Is he okay? Is he still the same him, in his dreams, in the end of the world, within a few feet, he never looked at each other, only quietly groped for a long way, where, where is his hometown, and where is his hometown?

Straddling the two sides of the acacia, waiting for a reunion. The flow of time is not old, the people waiting are already old, even the white hair, sparse white teeth, can not bite the secret of a red bean.

In the rain, the umbrella is confiscated by you; the mind is clear, the sky is clear, the light is clear, and everywhere is like a trace lurking on you. Thinking about it, you are still you, the relentless wind and rain, the story of our encounter, has never begun.

Guard the long sea, see when you come, when the flowers bloom, when your boat will be broken, when you will return after riding the wind and waves.

The seagulls are waiting, a benevolent diner arrives; the sailboat is waiting, and peace is the final and best answer; the fisherman's relatives are waiting, waiting for him to conquer the sea and open a spacious door for life, facing the warm and hopeful, bright sunshine!

-Author-

Pen name: Nothing more than, a native of Yibin, Sichuan, a lonely walker who likes to record his life and feelings with words. Once dreamed of being a great writer, now, forced by life, is only humble with words and walk together.

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