Sun through the fingers of the gaps,handbags for sale and threw in my tranquil face. I took off his glasses, light ... ... as gentle dreamy haze of all the photos. Shadow of the woods, returned yesterday, laughter and sorrow sigh, the soil under the fingers here, I understand that under the mottled precipitation. Years I have been promised, and that Fountainpen, record all traces of my stay. Young ... ... ups and downs, lined with faces. I sat under the tree, imagining that the tree will blossom trees. I know the wind came and went; rain had also stopped. I know the grass green, and withered; geese came and flew south. Just the initial impression, still buried deep in my heart, I do not know how to discard. So ... ... silent, a seed buried in the heart. I gave it enough time to germinate. Let it grow, let it suck mercilessly showing feelings, and read like. Until today, three years of hibernation ... ... ... ... It is also in the endless swallowed. And also to say 'I need nutrients, not my fragrance bloom'. Its tentacles covered with my heart, hurt ... ... my mind. I finally panicked and lost direction. I sat under the tree, flowering tree tree illusions will. I tried to the memory of years like when not mottled; trace that source, the source you and I first met the shy. I think this can solve the erosion of the seed. However, when I saw the rewind and return to the screen, quarter after quarter that changed the leaves. I finally understand the years pale and helpless. And I, as will fantasy tree flowering tree, growing up day by day. Sun through all my gaps, and I still believe that ... ... my beliefs. You are the source of all the haze and the sun, even if do not you tell me, I understand that fantasy pale. Years ... ... I had just promised to be as beautiful dream, how could I be willing to forget. The seeds have been grown in the thorns, covered with my heart. How do you say I am, how to get it out. I know that time that the cruel knife, it will change our appearance, but it can not divide my memory. I stubbornly wait years only thin ... ... 笺 tie, long ... ... text. Even, is dressed in white hair. Ultimately, the Suijin peaceful stream, precipitation in the ... ... under the withered leaves. I sat under the tree, hermes handbags the time to listen to the song flowing. Fantasy was finally too old, then I stopped all the struggle. The conflict in the embrace of fingers on his forehead, as it believe in prayer. More precisely, is silent, is ... ... a peace of mind. You can when it is a comfort, or on when it is a farewell. And my faith, and finally all dedicated to the tree will not bloom the tree. So over time I just take it bit by bit the rest of consciousness