It turned out that, knowing so deeply and regretting so long, some feelings will always be stranded by time and forgotten by each other.
Maybe loneliness isn't a disease, it's just a phenomenon, but loneliness is so heavy, I can't hold it, I'm a little confused.
Self-mockery is the second sense of failure. Confidence is a hypocritical lackey.
Write a short poem:
Editorial freedom is on paper, the maltose and stories of the past, what can I do if I can't find you, what can I do if I can't count the days?
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