Compared with the oceans that absorb hundreds of rivers and the rivers that linger in miles, I feel that my temperament is closer to a stream. In the years when I was less, I was sitting by the stream in my hometown, washing my hands and feet, and the autumn bleak through the water directly to the skin, deep into the bone marrow. I sat in the golden grass between the streams, reading the poems I first met, and there was a feeling of loneliness for the new words, which laid the foundation for the fate of my life: it was gray-blue and ambiguous. colour Marlboro Cigarettes. The autumn wind, like a fine-toothed comb, combed down the humility (and lack of pride) of wormwood, blowing a layer of fine ripples on the flat mirrored water surface, like a clean, white, calm old woman. Wrinkles on the face. Behind me is a large field of harvested fields, as well as mountains in the distance, with unobstructed air, birds lying calmly on the grass and the open space, or dancing with the lingering from the distance. I fell deeply into the loneliness of autumn, by a wide stream Marlboro Gold. Many years later, I read the verse of Walles Stevens: the river is flowing, and the bird must be flying. How shocked, joyful and grateful I am, as if the stream in my hometown has become a river of soup in my memory, but I am destined to belong to the veins of my hometown, just like a short-lived passion, returning to deep loneliness. Now, I am sitting on the edge of the stream in my hometown, and I see an old, suspicious, dusty face on the crystal clear water surface. A breath of sputum is passing through the summer afternoon. I reached out to the face in the water and wanted to touch another face. It deformed and shattered after the rough penetration of my fingers, and the water was scattered. They wobbled and reappeared after my hand pulled out of the water. I have been facing the face in the water for a long time, and it seems that it has become stranger by familiarity. In the long-term confrontation, I began to become suspicious of myself. The face in the water is illusory, coming from the other face in the air itself. I saw the face in the water: the floating clouds floating in the eyelids, the blooming and declining flowers on the lips, the two never crossed roads on the sides of the nose, the boundless bones of the wilderness---the ones who love each other Separating, shouting, and aging on it is a summer afternoon. I have been sitting in the stream of my hometown for a long time until I can see its essence: connection and disappearance. It was a vein of another wider channel that eventually disappeared in the downstream fields. It's like a small branch on the big tree of time, followed by thicker branches and numerous leaves. A stone falling into the water stunned me. I saw a lonely boy sitting across from him Cigarettes Online. His face had a quiet and sadness. He sat by the water, thinking like his life, destiny, and future. Is he thinking about how far a stream can take him?
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