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It is written

Perhaps the heart at that moment frozen, but because too depressed, maybe already numb, even the storms hit also disregard. Looking at the car window as the mesh of the rain, as if I have been forsaken by the whole world, only because I side of unfamiliar faces, the asymptotic warmth, but not you, just strangers.

You for me, perhaps it is just like sitting beside me, the next moment will disappear. Maybe we are just strangers, the next moment of destiny, already doomed. I want to, I want to be your anyone, and you, and you eventually you will be who what, who can tell?

It is written in the great stone, after five hundred years of wind and rain, five hundred years, in order to exchange life once wipe the shoulder. Obviously treasures, but why would pretend not to care about. Obviously very lonely, but why pretend to force a smile.

Perhaps, it is because of this life, do not care, and the next life, I missed so many should not miss the beautiful. But I was so, is such a cool man, a quiet boy, but quietly, such as lotus, quietly bloom, flowers, not for whom he, nor for who leave.

The train is still straight road driving, splash fainted in the window glass, closed the window, give others a bit warm, loneliness may be away. Quiet time, between the breath can smell, never weary heart finds no home, unable to stop. In the journey of life, the scenery outside the window to change to change, the only constant, is moist mood.

PR

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