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Heart breeze habits, deconstruction of the past glaze, thinking about the stretching of the beautiful Ting, the dyed plumb, the yearning for the water, the smoke curling in the words, the longer the vision of the dream. Missing, in the tears that turn around and seem calm but ripple down, gently open, open lonely faces like flowers. The fragrance of permanence in my whole life, I stand as a coveted watcher, flowing into the vastness of life and death on the five lines of the Red Dust spectrum, in the window obliquely reflected in the eyes of books, rushing into the gloomy sadness on the sad horse's back at sunset. The evening breeze opens, caresses the face across the mountains and rivers, melts the Sichuan Wenling with the pledge of never abandoning. A wisp of pale fragrance drifted through the nomadic love song, tossing and turning the end of the pen, the tip of the word, lingering. The world of detention, the Wei of melancholy heart, in the clouds and waters in disorder in the not central, for a long time can not be melodious galloping vicissitudes of life.
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