It’s already in July, it’s cloudy and rainy, and the years are floating in the scent of unhurriedness.
Often in love with the rainy night, a person quietly watching the car on the road, the past is long, a good song, echoing at the end of the street. This year, like a song, carrying a paper umbrella, slowly passing through the streets, how many lingering in the dreams.
A trace of silk, a glimpse, such as smoke, such as fog, dust, constantly entangled in the heart, the confused life at the end of the dream with the memory of the vines into a colorful network. I often feel the same thing at some point, seemingly dreamy and indistinguishable.
The rain stopped, the sky had a lot of stars, and there was a round of crescent moons. The streets and alleys lit up with lights. It was so beautiful. I know that this is another night, another mood, maybe there are repeated things, there will be a slight sadness. Looking at the bustling scene, there was a sting in my heart that could not be expressed in words. I only tried to forget the pain of the past, so I opened a familiar melody, and the good music slowly echoed in my ear. This is the song of the years, and the attachment to the past, which makes me intoxicated forever. /p>xx