Over the sky. This is true for many nights to come. The same joy, the same curling up, the same silent, as if my mind has drifted into the dark corner with the smoke. At this time, she will touch my eyes to determine if I have fallen asleep, because my breathing is even, the most obvious light in the room-the cigarette butt stops on my chest and no longer moves… she touched it It has always been my blinking eyes. I often suffer from insomnia, not overturning excitement, but quietly daze, letting the falling ashes burn the ginger holes in the covered surface.
Taste this bitter happiness and pain of erosion. A high-sense chao is an extravagant smell everywhere in the room, mixed with some steam of sweat and some indescribable sighs-this is not from me, I have always been quiet.