two white walls hung with black and blue on the calendar

Years, but not the source of a river of time. The long flowing, sharp bends and rapids, complicated ... we just ignorant of life for some time and space. Long growth, and emotions, to death ... ... one is in September, is this charming sky. Tile blue, distant. Clean, quiet. I stood beneath the sky, the earth of the mountains, light feel if Pina Hung, Miao Ruo crumbs. Sitting on the steps of the hillside, will own half of the dew in the sun, half in light and shade of the tree cover. So the sun is so quiet on this predicament, sounds and moving. Shaggy grass trembling in the line of sight, this vibration has spread into my heart, and with my secret desire resonance. Breeze and floated gently add to the fun, like a woman's most fragrant weed stroke my cheek, which made me suddenly very sigh - we have been in possession, as long as we have life. September is our gift of these gifts? But only the beginning of another fall. This clarity will be followed by chill, the kind of lofty will be followed by cold, the kind of romance on the outcome is absolutely decisive. Ono ah! Changfeng ah! Any shortness Pu volts, down Ye Xiangfei it. Autumn at the moment still in the distance at least indifferent. I often tell their own, like autumn, said at this time for September - we have been to, we will leave. Yes, everyone will walk their own time, some stories stay put something else away. This fall, even though the season will not ignore any love, but in the end the flowers withered, the last of the leaves whipped, they are also in the nostalgia who? In the autumn sun, I am facing the half-dark shadow to speak, and was deeply moved by his voice ... ... two white walls hung with black and blue on the calendar. I tear a few of the, then smiled and said: September is a. Memories are a way, we follow this path, like a naughty intention of crossing the fence, the air full of mulberry flavor. Mountain top with brown withered grass. I am honest, I do not like to remember, but can not refuse. Like walking in the urban and the rural wearing a mask, I feel heavy and obviously false, but can not get rid of. This is the definition of the laity it. But I have a soul, when in the month on the branches, supporting the clouds straight up it wants to reach a height where he shouting like a child: Come Yeah, you guess what I saw in the end? I hesitate, I pressed my body in the mundane world in general, such as monster stumbled, black and blue. Or simply as the soul, with the laissez-faire that smell fragrant mulberry flight?