I am planting flowers

[2vt8c2p4]

(Editor: sammy)


TAG Tags: smile fool
stranger's tempting,beats by dre, walking in the years

dim haze in the air, wet death

burying the past is not the quiet night, there is no willful mad fans

sigh gently,tods, gently depressed,

the pleasure this past

allies and enemies with the taste of coffee, deep throat intestinal

just that, a dream has different roles, different environmental

who painted the picture of their own

the familiar taste of the cold

misty, misty in black

That is noble and ignoble color

in an instant, was fascinated with the interpretation can not forget the drip

deep throat, deep fall tells the fairy tale that

is always hovering in the forgotten and the mind

always contradictions, contradictions willing

really do not know the truth and the truth, you know whether there are blurred

lights decorated building,Polo Ralph Lauren, shining a past deserting our ideas,Polo Ralph Lauren pas cher, do not know all this correspondence,beats de dre, like the pulse of the past had been, unfathomable.

only willing to laugh it all the nameless, always seem to end that way.

fool the last laugh.

Why do I remember always, the children grow up, building on where they stand, there are those who always change and become perfect.

why this is so, I am planting flowers,dre beats, always brilliant sunshine in the afternoon slump fade.

Why do we always do not want something, missing this for fun. Bored.

Why do we love to say false words, to do things Mei Xin, doing silly moves, with cranky mind.

fool, crying.

fool, why would laugh, cry it?

it does not know it all, do not know why it is more like that.




【幽默篇】失街亭

放》》

真的好开心你带我回你家去


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.