This is a love letter to a woman, in which it says that the flowers are still fragrant even though they are withered. The death prophecy of the tarot opens with a strong sense of fate like a dark cloud lingering. Cleo wanders around in company or in form, consuming male love and desire in emptiness. Like frequent objective shots, 90 minutes ago, no one around her could hear her inner doubts, loneliness, fear, suffocation and suffocation, and even her desire for pure love, all of which were explained by the love words of men and women on the side of the cafe. She is imprisoned in the eyes of others, like an angel sculpture that has been polished repeatedly, and she cannot tolerate imperfection at all. Withering is coming, but rain and dew come unexpectedly. She learned from him that love is the most fascinating verb in the linear life journey, that it is the full bloom of the sweetness and nobility of life, and bathed in the sunbeam that hits him for a moment.
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