It was an occasion that faded with time, a memory that faded with the years. Looking at the past, Yinghai is an infinitely vast mountain and a infinitely vast world. Now, all that was left was the noisy and chaotic space, where the sound of the wind was heard whistling by, and a faint light was engraved on the yellowed pages.

I could faintly see the shadow of the setting sun in the scorching sun. Always follow a route that must be followed to find everything that is missing and hoped for in life. An unused bottle of ink, a slender fountain pen, these things and the rapid passage of time have swallowed up the past years. Life has its own different sustenance,

The sustenance of the wild goose is the sky and the sea, the sustenance of the heart is the ideal, and I put everything in my life on the pen and the feelings engraved on the paper. On the other side of the sky and sea, in the hometown of the dream, in the barren land that has been eaten away by the wind and fire, holding the pen in his hand, on both sides of the strait, in the past and the future, write a shallow trace.

Buried in the blank pages, I often forget that time flows forward.

When I was a child, I looked at the river flowing quietly in front of the window, smiled, thought, and always wanted to find a way to express those unspeakable feelings. I stood high on the hill, walking along the path of blooming rape flowers, holding a heavy dream called a book, and running towards a bright intersection. What a time it was, I heard, a tune that was more beautiful than a song, and I saw a blue world wider than the sky.

In those years when every child was crazy about games and wandering, I read Jian Zhen's "Falling Sunflower", stretched out my hand to touch the strokes, and let the words that were intertwined and written like a warm current slipped into my fingers.

"Maybe it's getting late, and I know that in the toiling world, it is becoming more and more difficult to achieve the ideal beauty, and it is impossible to piece together the complete fragments that are visible to the eye."

"I don't ask where I came from, I don't want more, I don't think about whether the first meeting is the last goodbye."

I aspire to write down every fragment of my life, tirelessly, without stopping, all the way through such an experience, carrying my words, going all the way, even if it is just standing under the cold white chandelier, to imagine the glory of the rising sun, from the gloom to the infinite light. Because of words, 10,000 years ago, 10,000 years later, we look up with the same memory, looking back at the end of the torrent of the times, and only the engraved mark called the word, leaving a traceable mark for the smoke and clouds at that time and the sea at that time, and looking for thousands of years of clues to dig out the old poems and simple books. Therefore, it may be extremely difficult, but it must always be persistent. In this way, the situation of youth will gradually fade away, and death and parting are such a fixed route. "In the cycle of impermanence, walk calmly. Pick up your distant voice, and suddenly there is silence. "Flipping through my grandfather's diary, the rice paper hanging on the wall smeared with ink, I forgot to change, I forgot to say goodbye, or goodbye. I looked up at these words, feeling the splendid sorrow of life, the Ganges River is quiet, flowing horizontally, the willow tree has left the stump branches, I look for shallow traces and memories, see the golden waves, reflecting the shadow of the weeping willow, the text is a light song, so that the original bite on the lips can be taken off

The sentence that came out of his mouth was knotted and swallowed hard in the cold watery air. The melancholy of having nowhere to put the words, the words singing the verses that I can't chant.

Maybe life will end, maybe the enthusiasm and expectation will slowly fade, the fingers have always carried the weight of words, the passage of time has stretched countless lights and shadows, and then disappeared in an instant after transformation, and occasionally I will think of such a picture in an inopportune situation, I can't put down the pen when writing, like a machine that has been suddenly cut off from power. Perhaps, many years later, some people will think of these lost years, because they have not cherished and regret it, but after putting down the pen, they will find that the name of the call has already been turned into powder by a few handfuls of loess. But I will always be a traveler holding an oar in the sea of words, erecting white sails and cutting through the rolling white waves. How many ups and downs and edges ahead, the dream I carry, will always insist on smiling in that gentle stroke, smile, stroke by stroke into a beautiful fragment, the end of the fragment is a line of dusty words, the end of the text is a dream, the end of the dream, is the abyss that is out of reach, but also the infinite gorgeous sky.

This is

Eternity, my eternal following.

"Silently calm the dust of the world in silence, and keep a piece of your own eternal pure land in the depths of your heart; Let all the sorrows of youth fall into mud and be quietly buried. The dust is washed away, and there is the clarity of the empty mountain spirit rain in my chest, this is my only desire. But you have not understood my delicate mind, and have often confused the quiet reserve of my heart. ”

Perhaps, you will never touch this quiet wind, and only let the ghost of my words hover over you empty......

It was an occasion that faded with time, a memory that faded with the years. Looking at the past, Yinghai is an infinitely vast mountain and a infinitely vast world. Now, all that was left was the noisy and chaotic space, where the sound of the wind was heard whistling by, and a faint light was engraved on the yellowed pages.

I could faintly see the shadow of the setting sun in the scorching sun. Always follow a route that must be followed to find everything that is missing and hoped for in life. An unused bottle of ink, a slender fountain pen, these things and the rapid passage of time have swallowed up the past years. Life has its own different sustenance,

The sustenance of the wild goose is the sky and the sea, the sustenance of the heart is the ideal, and I put everything in my life on the pen and the feelings engraved on the paper. On the other side of the sky and sea, in the hometown of the dream, in the barren land that has been eaten away by the wind and fire, holding the pen in his hand, on both sides of the strait, in the past and the future, write a shallow trace.

Buried in the blank pages, I often forget that time flows forward.

When I was a child, I looked at the river flowing quietly in front of the window, smiled, thought, and always wanted to find a way to express those unspeakable feelings. I stood high on the hill, walking along the path of blooming rape flowers, holding a heavy dream called a book, and running towards a bright intersection. What a time it was, I heard, a tune that was more beautiful than a song, and I saw a blue world wider than the sky.

In those years when every child was crazy about games and wandering, I read Jian Zhen's "Falling Sunflower", stretched out my hand to touch the strokes, and let the words that were intertwined and written like a warm current slipped into my fingers.

"Maybe it's getting late, and I know that in the toiling world, it is becoming more and more difficult to achieve the ideal beauty, and it is impossible to piece together the complete fragments that are visible to the eye."

"I don't ask where I came from, I don't want more, I don't think about whether the first meeting is the last goodbye."

I aspire to write down every fragment of my life, tirelessly, without stopping, all the way through such an experience, carrying my words, going all the way, even if it is just standing under the cold white chandelier, to imagine the glory of the rising sun, from the gloom to the infinite light. Because of words, 10,000 years ago, 10,000 years later, we look up with the same memory, looking back at the end of the torrent of the times, and only the engraved mark called the word, leaving a traceable mark for the smoke and clouds at that time and the sea at that time, and looking for thousands of years of clues to dig out the old poems and simple books. Therefore, it may be extremely difficult, but it must always be persistent. In this way, the situation of youth will gradually fade away, and death and parting are such a fixed route. "In the cycle of impermanence, walk calmly. Pick up your distant voice, and suddenly there is silence. "Flipping through my grandfather's diary, the rice paper hanging on the wall smeared with ink, I forgot to change, I forgot to say goodbye, or goodbye. I looked up at these words, feeling the splendid sorrow of life, the Ganges River is quiet, flowing horizontally, the willow tree has left the stump branches, I look for shallow traces and memories, see the golden waves, reflecting the shadow of the weeping willow, the text is a light song, so that the original bite on the lips can be taken off

The sentence that came out of his mouth was knotted and swallowed hard in the cold watery air. The melancholy of having nowhere to put the words, the words singing the verses that I can't chant.

Maybe life will end, maybe the enthusiasm and expectation will slowly fade, the fingers have always carried the weight of words, the passage of time has stretched countless lights and shadows, and then disappeared in an instant after transformation, and occasionally I will think of such a picture in an inopportune situation, I can't put down the pen when writing, like a machine that has been suddenly cut off from power. Perhaps, many years later, someone will remember these lost years

, because I didn't cherish it and regretted it, after putting down the pen, I found that the name of the call had already been turned into powder by a few handfuls of loess. But I will always be a traveler holding an oar in the sea of words, erecting white sails and cutting through the rolling white waves. How many ups and downs and edges ahead, the dream I carry, will always insist on smiling in that gentle stroke, smile, stroke by stroke into a beautiful fragment, the end of the fragment is a line of dusty words, the end of the text is a dream, the end of the dream, is the abyss that is out of reach, but also the infinite gorgeous sky.

This is eternity, my eternal following.

"Silently calm the dust of the world in silence, and keep a piece of your own eternal pure land in the depths of your heart; Let all the sorrows of youth fall into mud and be quietly buried. The dust is washed away, and there is the clarity of the empty mountain spirit rain in my chest, this is my only desire. But you have not understood my delicate mind, and have often confused the quiet reserve of my heart. ”

Perhaps, you will never touch this quiet wind, and only let the ghost of my words hover over you empty......

It was an occasion that faded with time, a memory that faded with the years. Looking at the past, Yinghai is an infinitely vast mountain and a infinitely vast world. Now, all that was left was the noisy and chaotic space, where the sound of the wind was heard whistling by, and a faint light was engraved on the yellowed pages.

I could faintly see the shadow of the setting sun in the scorching sun. Always follow a route that must be followed to find everything that is missing and hoped for in life. An unused bottle of ink, a slender fountain pen, these things and the rapid passage of time have swallowed up the past years. Life has its own different sustenance,

The sustenance of the wild goose is the sky and the sea, the sustenance of the heart is the ideal, and I put everything in my life on the pen and the feelings engraved on the paper. On the other side of the sky and sea, in the hometown of the dream, in the barren land that has been eaten away by the wind and fire, holding the pen in his hand, on both sides of the strait, in the past and the future, write a shallow trace.

Buried in the blank pages, I often forget that time flows forward.

When I was a child, I looked at the river flowing quietly in front of the window, smiled, thought, and always wanted to find a way to express those unspeakable feelings. I stood high on the hill, walking along the path of blooming rape flowers, holding a heavy dream called a book, and running towards a bright intersection. What a time it was, I heard, a tune that was more beautiful than a song, and I saw a blue world wider than the sky.

In those years when every child was crazy about games and wandering, I read Jian Zhen's "Falling Sunflower", stretched out my hand to touch the strokes, and let the words that were intertwined and written like a warm current slipped into my fingers.

"Maybe it's getting late, and I know that in the toiling world, it is becoming more and more difficult to achieve the ideal beauty, and it is impossible to piece together the complete fragments that are visible to the eye."

"I don't ask where I came from, I don't want more, I don't think about whether the first meeting is the last goodbye."

I aspire to write down every fragment of my life, tirelessly, without stopping, all the way through such an experience, carrying my words, going all the way, even if it is just standing under the cold white chandelier, to imagine the glory of the rising sun, from the gloom to the infinite light. Because of words, 10,000 years ago, 10,000 years later, we look up with the same memory, looking back at the end of the torrent of the times, and only the engraved mark called the word, leaving a traceable mark for the smoke and clouds at that time and the sea at that time, and looking for thousands of years of clues to dig out the old poems and simple books. Therefore, it may be extremely difficult, but it must always be persistent. In this way, the situation of youth will gradually fade away, and death and parting are such a fixed route. "In the cycle of impermanence, walk calmly. Pick up your distant voice, and suddenly there is silence. "Flipping through my grandfather's diary, the rice paper hanging on the wall smeared with ink, I forgot to change, I forgot to say goodbye, or goodbye. I looked up at these words, and felt the splendid sorrow of life, the Ganges River was quiet, the flow was horizontal, the willow trees were left with stump branches, I looked for shallow traces and memories, and saw the golden waves.................

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