Silent time, memory is a blossoming tree. Inadvertently, it is already a flower sparkle. There is a kind of longing, an addiction that cannot be quit. It is so mellow, sweet and sour. When you get used to a being, it frames your life; from then on, it is no longer necessary to separate, just as I think of your every night.
On the lonely windowsill, there was some shallow moonlight, and thoughts were like running deer, refusing to rest. There was a sad tune coming from afar, like a note plucked on the heartstrings, and the whole night became miserable and empty. Touch or gaze, it's so far away. Indulging in an illusory possession is like being poisoned and hopelessly unsolvable.
I have simply been like a pure white river, in all existence, except you, as if I had nothing. In the ethereal hours, your voice responded to me, distant and real, and often made my heart tremble. The dance on the fingertips is poignant and poignant, and there is a little bit of sadness.
There is often an illusory image that is constantly played in my countless dreams. You came to me like an angel in the moonlight, silently, and looked at me. At that time, the morning glory in the courtyard had climbed up the window sill and climbed the courtyard wall. The purple wind chime, in the slight movement of the wind, gently crisp sound...