The light here is the 18-

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Сообщение ylq » 12.09.2019, 10:50

A cup of coffee, aromas, mouth-watering. Take a taste of it and know what it is. Rich, slightly bitter Wholesale Cigarettes. After swallowing Parliament Cigarettes, there is a hint of sweetness on the taste buds. This taste is similar to the 18-year-old in our flower season, which is 18 years old, a flower season that has been rained. Stepping through the sand, watching the rain curtains all over the sky, perhaps, I have been looking forward to the clearness of the rain many times, to appreciate the coolness of the rain. However, time and time again, wait and see, and let the flowers bloom, let the flowers go, until the time is also dusted, the leaves are still the leaves, the stone is still the stone. At the age of 18, standing on the balcony without rain, watching the rain, so quiet, the children who listen to the rain are called hoes, oh! It can only be a hoe. In the eyes and hearts of Shantou, there is no direction of oneself, no expectations of oneself, no ideal of oneself. Standing in the age of eighteen, I don��t know where to go, I don��t know where to go. The father has half the hair, the mother's worried eyes, and the girl can only remember their demands forever, their expectations. That is the gaze of hope and expectation. Perhaps, no one can bear it, and it cannot be ignored. Shantou is so bitter, I really hope that I can instantly turn into a glimpse of the air and always get rid of the suffering of the soul. However, how many warm ties, how many sunshine nostalgia, are not willing. I really don't want the wind here. The light here is the 18-year-old path. I walked on it, saw the rain curtains all over the sky, and reached for it. Oh, but I can't feel the rain! The plantain of that place, the few drops of Yingying were soaked in the abyss of thought, the pen in the hand did not stop, but the 18-year-old road had already passed halfway. Time sneaked away in the fingers, and looked back, the colorful memoirs, but a few pages blank. I want to mention the shadow of the 18-year-old, but I can't find the right color. One day, the 18-year-old can't avoid the fate of being thrown into the dust. However, we are always willing to open the smoke from time to time Carton Of Cigarettes, from time to time to review the color and tone of that life... Memories, like a calm lake, occasionally a few stones cast, swaying layers of 18 years old, stunned, no Measures, loneliness, frivolousness... bit by bit of bitterness is collected in the heart, brewing. Waiting until his day, uncovering the bottle cap of memory, it is still bitter. Just somehow, the corner of my mouth can��t rise up to eighteen, I��m holding the cup of coffee, bitter, sweet.
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