black clock, the pointer swing Buxie ,
bit blah,
Franklin et Marshall, I heard a resigned sigh;
bit blah, I heard the pain in the application Yin;
drops pattered I have heard the memory was torn;
gorgeous faded black and white, that lost the bustling;
bloom in my face withered rose,
pouring in my hair pale frost;
bitter sip of that forum will be evaporated in the Rouchang;
singing that song from the song, it will disappear ear.
cobblestone path, spending, and now who carved the sorrow;
yellow ginkgo when that bid farewell to the last leaf worry forlorn, I can no longer find the original attachment Nama ;
Fallen flowers out of a deliberate graffiti Hong Trail, a long piece of road departure, the number of people sleeping tears?
defensible window, but could not restrain the door to blossom;
when the trees that withstood the bitter parting,
when the pursuit of The wind has taken away its only leaf,
when it is nothing,
Franklin & Marshall, I have harvested, the harvest of a split season.
train took my man,
took me backpack,
that heavy thoughts away;
across the mountains, across rivers,
wander in the day, the shuttle in the night;
what made me choose sign off,
down to write the letter?
it is called the fear of forgetting,
Achat Franklin Marshall,
was the ink stone ink dried incense,
blurred fish Yuelong Men's young and frivolous.
trembling hands, I'm still struggling to sing Zhaohuaxishi beautiful,
debate but the flowers dancing in the wind fell who already knows all house roof,
fear that God gave me to finally pass the spy, after all, would not be in my collection ...
footprint hesitant Zhu, I wandered in the gain and loss, mood helpless, helpless.
old black and white picture only when the flames burned away in time,
I can not hold the ashes of a handful of worship to stay only to temperature.
forget some things that some people in the forgotten;
to meet one's name might have been thrown into the sea,
to Ruoyouruowu piece resting on the beach story;
Then I doing? I dream of gulls in the pursuit of ... ...
abandonment of you, I recall a diffuse However,
at the moment whether you are trying to forget my name,
franklin marshall pas cher, and those, and my story.
forget it! Forget it!
when the message board where you will not be clear astringent handwriting;
When you talk about not feeling in a unique see Italy;
when the There is no you to stay in the shadow;
I know you have forgotten me.
today I use plain text plain narrative mood,
only for those who are too easily forgotten.
life should not have so many people cared about, you are my guest, I am then why not your passing;
can not afford, like holding sand,
Chaussure foot, and some share of this passage fate ... ...
gently, I have forgotten, was another emotion filled!
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- Man | Summer Mo chilling
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Abstract: - Man | Summer chilling black foam clock,
Mercurial Vapor, prodigiously swinging pointer bit blah, I heard a sigh of frustration; bit blah, I heard the pain in the application Yin; drops of despair despair, I heard the memory was torn; gorgeous faded black and white, that lost the bustling; ...
忘性
听凭悲伤蔓延
because your past life commitments
The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.
it is called the fear of forgetting
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