In the story, I dreamed of you again.

Once upon a time, there was a boy croaking to the ground, the breeze swept his face, and he kissed him lightly on the cheek, which was the most sincere love given to him by heaven and earth, his big round eyes were as pure as water, blinking and curiously exploring the world, the wind blew the flowers, the world was changing, and you gradually lost the summer when the rain turned into flowers.

The years are staggered, the tip of the pen is scribbling on the thin stream passing by, and the carefully decorated memories always have a moment when they become clear and transparent.

I will think of your uninhibited appearance, in the background of the flower-like meadow, connected to the pure blue without boundaries, occasionally mischievous white appears, broken hair casually on your pure eyes, the wind passes, leaving pink and red and white wildflower fragments between your fingers, and the white clothes are filled with angelic mist in the light, gradually dimmed in the poetic painting.

Dreams are no longer dreams in dreams, flowers bloom in reality.

Occasionally, I met under the white light at a loss, but unfortunately, it was just a figure similar to you, I only know that time, let you go from a small flower bone, to a blooming flower, let the clouds above your head, make you look a lot lower, so that on the earth, there is one more upright walking object.

I also know that I know you.

You used to love tears, and there are always a lot of bright crystals on your eyes, washing your eyes again and again. You tell your eyes words that you can't speak, and your pupils will send messages that echo you, and your eyes have comforted you countless times, and angels are watching you.

That day, as I stood in the orange night, I could see you, passing sad and empty memories in any traffic.

Thoreau said, "The blue robin has come to the sky on his back, and I cannot smell compromise in the fragrance of white water lilies." "I vividly remember that the rain really fell from the clouds suddenly, and the nonchalant smile collected the mood that had been planned for a long time.

Nothing can be clearer than this, the time carves the imitation of the world, and the confused streets precipitate a sobering peace.

Youth has not yet been worn away by the irritable flow of people.

Looking into the distance, there is still a verdant meadow, and the grass is tiled with memories of each other's pursuit. There was still a figure, stepping on the mud, chasing what he longed for in a quiet corner.

That thing is called a dream......

I know that your youthful eyes are still fresh.