Through the silhouette of thoughts, I remember the moment when I first saw the young, bright eyes and white teeth so printed in the memory, tracing your silhouette, has been at the end of the world. The most beautiful years are as short as a pot of tea, the tip of the broken memories, can not go back to the young time, once the plum boiled wine, once the young and uninhibited, has long been washed away by the flood of time.
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