At the tip of your fingers, you're sending your heart out.

  • Slubs glide fingertips of time, together with all subsequent warm, at any time of the tendril, silently count is yellow flower, make the day in eyebrow little smile, all people, things, are noted to age for insulation, in a shallow when looking back, in the age of the scene, leave a QingJian smile, deep in the heart has gone with the wind -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- by far

    At the beginning of time, the people of the day. In life, there is always a page, but near, but far. It turns out that I played when I was too bad; It turned out that the year was almost gone. Then what is the matter between me and my fingertips? All this year? Though the autumn wind sweeps the fallen leaves, the flowers fall, but the mountain river is in, only, feel in, do not follow the shadow and fall silent. You're in a dream, song. Wish to sow a clear, undisturbed, undisturbed, in the cross.

    When the wind blows, the wind is uncertain. But I can't help it. It's not the beginning of the year. This simple gaze of the eyes, a sense of disorientation, is the first glance diverts, in winter, there is a micro thought and hurt, sigh time merciless, sigh together scatter hurriedly. How can I be the one who is wrong with each other, and why I am when I am grey? In life, there is always a page. One day, one moment, one. Or, I linger, and reimmerse myself in the shadow of my own world, a trickle to the aftertaste, but I do not know that this day is at the fingertips of my self. What is the end of this scattered fingertips? And how many of them have tasted so much that they have not been able to do it?

    At the fingertips, I have a different, different view. Or, I am still on the day, waiting, and still must know, is "a year of a year, a look of the eye is also a wonderful scene. At this time, in November, I will leave. The time is infinite, but the body has its jangdan. How much of my life is mine? "Two Taoist people are right in each other", and you (you) have had a real understanding? And you want to be yourself? See, right now you also in, then why don't make me born in this limited real easy to it, from the endless air to keep the permanent's real beauty, warm heart to love to good simmer a simmer a flocculant of warm me about that?

    Outside the window, another light rain, patter. The mood, like the time, has the beauty of the book. Every leaf has a pulse, and every flower has its own. There is so much to learn from your fingertips. There are too many people at the turning point. The body of my heart, but often but a moment. I do not change the world, but I can be completely changed, permeable to be able to be easily, so, "hence the noise of the dust, I must have all the others, so the soul of the self. Build a quiet house, cover a word, or a maze of roads. But the heart, all is the post, for the future. The guy who doesn't talk. For those who are still, all things are joyful, but they are not to be loved. Love is still beautiful.

    The full moon is full of time. The day of yesterday will not be the garment of the present. The more I am, the better I am. To be worthy of this is to be called. Though his work has begun to surprise me, it is at my core. Every man is a man who writes his own life. The world is a bright future for you and the world. The same, all old blessings, also old people. Don't be surprised when you suddenly see yourself in the mirror. To have the best of both of them, I am to blame. Like, this disease and progress, not to be a demonstration, but not to live. Why not make me try hard and learn to be a man of life? When you don't have a date, you don't have a date. When you are in a hurry, when you know that the year ends at the end of your fingertips? Do not wait for tomorrow, do not say, "Ming judah and", the beginning of today, is the beginning of the year of the trickle of the hope that is the root bud?

    Jin qing's memory, begging me to be clear, with the moon, he would not speak, deeply buried heart, like cloud. Pick up a leaf that falls on the shoulder, the book "coagulates cold dew heavy, wish you many self-love". The wind was warm, and the water was rippling. Or, I would like to sit in time, the quiet of the place and the living of the living, the taste of this simple blessing, China learn to smile, the time will be strong, the wind will always be anxious. But in the world of light, there is no way to be light. But see there is a strange, its tomorrow complex, also not with its crisp and the flow.

    Time, the encounter between the gradual walk away, and in each of each, is also. Is the window of the gold do not make me happy, writhing this scattered on the tip of the finger, and feeling of the Yin, but open in the corner of dust, with phase with warm all the way, at any time of the tendril, silently count is yellow flower, make the day in eyebrow little smile, all people, things, are noted to the time of the insulation, in a shallow when looking back, in the time of the scene, for you (you) I charge of collection, is a small bridge straight upon provided the qing?