Shallow summer, with a few flowers to pay tribute to the dead love. It's like a sad and joyful legend, and we just lose ourselves.
I never looked back at the road I had walked, for fear that those wet footprints would take away all my normal thoughts, turn around and scatter the sadness all over the place.
Summer dusk. There are so few.
You said that in a country where there are no angels, there is a girl quietly counting her tears.
You said that if there were no meeting at that time, falling in love halfway, and the final end, you would not admit that we had grown up.
You said that in the face of the sunset, no matter which direction you turn around, it will be scattered with sadness.
I quietly buried your tears, quietly recall our past, quietly turned around in the setting sun, I can not forget, really.
The flowers have fallen. Spatter a drop of blood on the ground, I know that we are already heaven and earth.
It hurts. Once upon a time, it was so fake.
Many people may think that our sad children are both naive and innocent, but when I recall them, I use the most serious expression. Do not want to laugh, but smile happier than anyone else, do not want to pretend, but always curl up at the foot of the bed lonely, silent.
Who says we shouldn't have sorrow.
Who says that what we have is self-deceiving happiness.
Who says, youth can not become a sad and beautiful sentence.
Give us a pen and a piece of paper and we can depict the sun.
A short season of summer injury, wheat singing farewell to our young youth, we each watch happiness in our own wheat fields, even if all for this turn, at least we have been through, not passing by.
Lonely, cool. Like a grave.
You've gone far and never come back.
I remember. Always have the out-of-date CD in your pocket, listening and writing. Dream that one day will be able to write their feelings into a book, and then published in the name of youth.
I remember. Holding your hand through countless alleys, running from one alley to the end of another, and then from another to another, exchanging thoughts with the dark alley, foolishly catching the sun.
I remember. Ride a bike to take you to the wild, watching irises climb all over the hillside and watch them wither and fall quietly.
Drizzle wet streamer, broken fleeting, after all, iris Xie.
Honey
On the count of one, two, three
On the count of three, two, one.
We turn around at the same time.
The setting sun lengthens our thin figure
The desolation scattered all over the place.
From then on, we learned to grow up.
Author: Zhang Zuosuo
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