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Autumn is an icy dream, sleeping in my clear heart. What kind of sweetness and tenderness to use, wake her up at the dawn of heavy rain, and bury a vivid warmth, I have blended into the distant dusk and the endless dusk. Time, flashing golden autumn colors, falling bit by bit, splashing full of joy. Mindful things, squatting along the autumn wave, opened one by one, and bloomed into a slim bow. Sitting alone in the sky, raining the river, washing the autumn, telling the time, I want to sing. Dripping rain, warm and damp dry atrium. Whose eyes are brewing a sweet fragrance? Whose songs are woven into a singer? The misty rain, I spread the palm of my hand, holding the light that leaked through the season, condensed into a pearl-like fragrance, and polished the smile. Autumn, the wind blows the distant mountains to my window. Oh, spectacular. Implicit and gentle. In the depths, on the spine of the mountain, a baby waking up like a rain, fresh, curious, cheerful, naughty. The raindrops are all dancing feet, Angel's. The raindrops are crystal clear, light and clear, with low winds and high sorghum. The raindrops, carrying the autumn, doing the spring dreams, carrying the time, the mother-in-law, flying, I know that in a quiet autumn, living a childlike heart. When the fingertips of the drizzle slipped through the autumn, some clear words seemed to be an ancient canal Newport Cigarettes, and the stream was long and graceful. The season is changed from season to season, and time passes again and again. Memories, from a certain day, indulge in childishness. Is autumn real? A kite volleys and dances. At the height of a dream, climbing and flowing, I put my dreams on my eyelashes and simulate the wings with autumn songs to fly. The imagination of the blue sky is higher than the dark fragrance of the autumn, echoing in the ethereal autumn sound. A song of autumn, jumping the rhythm of poetry, slightly swaying the waves. I am obsessed with the sorrow of the years, in the vicissitudes of the years, obsessively watching the autumn light. The leaves have not gone far, the tides of my return to spring are still surging, my dry body, saving the energy to fight the cold. The golden color of the autumn wind, that is my old eyes, relive the green dream. Cut a faint time, shy into a nut, and spit out the shame and fragrance. I can poet good wine, I am not sad autumn. Time to cook the rain, not vicissitudes of life, depression, melancholy, jealousy and jealousy are already my distance. Walking through the corridors of the years, even if I am lonely, even if I am in pain, I will not yell. I just want to be an autumn daisy, with all things in the lonely world, listening to insects. I only want to be a generation of Rangers, riding a thin horse, wearing a broken armor, top cold wind, fighting hot summer, incense and fragrant piano, calm and self-confident. I will not exile those timed time in the sad heart Marlboro Red, raising a lake sad. Putting the wine to the east, I don��t talk about people being thinner than the yellow flowers, not talking about the coolness of the autumn, not to mention the autumn dreams Cigarettes Online, the life of the flowers, the geometric flower of life? Not to mention the frosty maple leaves, the sky is snowy, the time is only sighing, and only some unsuccessful mailings are installed in a thick Tang poetry, and an elegant tea sound is used to gently tell the one in the Milky Way. Shameful flowers: a good year to remember, the most orange, orange and green. The se
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