It's almost the New Year, and the sky occasionally snows, or sleet, and the grass and trees on the road are bent, and they creak when they step on it, and Bing Ling also spits out his long tongue again, and breaks a section with his hand

It's almost the New Year, the sky occasionally snows, or sleet, the grass and trees on the road are bent, and it creaks when you step on it, and Bing Ling also spits out his long tongue again, breaks a section with his hand, and sees a world of ice and jade, I remember eating such ice ridges when I was a child.

If you don't want to write, you just look at your phone in the bed of your hometown, either by burning the fire or walking along the mountain road. There is no socialization here, just quiet, simple, and self-purifying thinking.

The snowflakes came too late, and they were too small, so small that they disappeared as soon as they fell into their hands, and the sky was white, and there was a thin layer of snow on the ground, a world covered in silver.

A few lines of footprints on the road, which I deliberately stepped on in the morning. I want to give people who are about to come in or out a marker, and maybe want to see when it will be covered with new snow.

Snow is beautiful, but it melts, and spring, not long after, will come slowly as the ice drops fall.