List of high-quality authors
The number of years, like intertwined ropes, tightly wraps around the neck, pulling the middle-aged life to pieces.
We are like wrecked ships, wading through storms and waves.
You say you've seen through life, but you're still moving towards the ripe orchard.
The sky is as blue as a wash, as if it is a blessing, blessing both those who have received and those who have passed, blessing us to still see the rise of the full moon in each other's eyes beyond the haze of the times.
In winter, we took refuge in a rose-colored carriage with blue seats.
Every soft corner becomes a nest of kisses, and we are very comfortable.
Close your eyes and don't look at the black shadows that swayed on the glass, the wandering ghosts, the black demons, the black wolves.
Then you feel a scratch on your face, and a little kiss, like a crazy spider, crawls up your neck.
You hurriedly lowered your head and exclaimed, "Where did you go?"."We've been looking for a long time, and the worm has gone far away.
I love you, I don't need to say it, I don't want your answer.
You rest your legs on the terrace, and below you is a light city that only holds up traffic with trilobite slides.
Its floral scent spews letters into the soles of your white feet, and three red squirrels sit on your lap and talk, their tails tied in slipknots.
Your fingers tear it apart again and again, and you watch the rosy dome fall with silver nuggets.
In fact, I love the smell of the elephant after the rain and the sandalwood of the tree more than I love you, I love the bear wading through the stream in the moonlight, and I love the rattle grass that swings its tentacles and scratches the twilight.
I smashed through the deep glass and fell onto the terrace, where I was held by my ankle.
A glimmer of light leaks between your closed thumbs, and the city is tied with a feathered pendant, as if it were a silent poem, softly telling our story.