Xi Murong talks about writing, known as "a mental over a piece of paper", or for portable unloaded weight, or as a result of love said some TIGI word, then the article, there is a story, a book. An accident of heart and paper review, a romantic encounter.
Shi Tiesheng at the Ditan seasons reincarnation in flounder, bring gossip drip aggregation formed a vigorous bouquet, life so get hope and light showers, no longer helpless flawless, in compliance with the soul of the road to follow in sb.'s footsteps, step by step, after all, is a riot of colour gradually open, open the world never to miss in front suddenly, everything in the paper are the total affordable shades off. Two see not tire of each other speechless.
Tian Wei in the blog wrote: "I is the text of the witch in half, half deserted exuberant flower fields, hard work." Text in obsessed writers are concerned, is perhaps a talk of a possible exit in life, and look forward to, is hidden in the end of hills and rivers with Hua Ming Liu dark in. G.D., perform a love will never change until death, "not the letter heart not matched".
The ancients love playing the zither, advocating mountain bosom friend pity, nether Cheonggyecheon, a string sounds such as their jingle tactfully, cut to make the fleeting time, just see an inch really, while Qing huan. Writer and text, I think, should also be like each other. Different stations, different scenery, different career angle, but all is playing the zither have great originality of thought, feeling, understanding puzzled, and send in the Zheng, in Zheng, thought day thought, music cloud Valley echo, dark and deep, beyond the mountain barrier, heavy water barrier by chance, may also hold the pedestrian, this wizard in moved to stop, or obscure or hidden sleep, or ask to be or sigh, but why worry over what solution, only to the eyes linger on the occasion, Yun Hu not like?
Ancient people put the story recorded in the bamboo slips, ink mark also are shallow hook to the tempting with introduction of ups and downs. The magnificent days Cuikulaxiu, now no longer fragrant ink bamboo ran aground, but the story still legend has infinite layer. Since ancient times, there is no shortage of writer. As one, the practice of thinking and expression, the smooth sharp feelers out to the unknown emptiness of fields, carefully test throughput, conscientiously. The text is sometimes frivolous games or random tool, but not to any man said. In another group, the text becomes a deified symbols, hidden infinite magnetic field, waiting to be explored, is seeking, is convinced that by surprise.
Paranoia of chaos in a beauty, beauty of single repeatedly, have beautiful solitude solitary sorrow, beauty weary confusion, these are originally living in original state, continuous peeling layers of soul, trivial kill of heart. The author used the sensitive thinks understanding to capture these sufferings in life in a small and unique and beautiful, magnified bold, experience will own, their memory, understanding of people, thing to see, read the book, your dreams, fantasies, Lenovo, have intention to throw them, decorated with lace roll the bottom, with the details, so one day the author will reap a story.
Writing, is an independent and quite fee brain demanding job, its practitioners are often in a lonely place, no team has no foreign aid, encounter blocking tangle is very painful, depressed restless sleep eating tasteless, only to suddenly see the light can get themselves, there is no shortcut. The author for his works, never do not stay out, Dangjuzhemi, author suffered the brunt. "Full of ridiculous statement, a bitter tears. Filthy authors are, of whom one flavor?" As Gustave Flaubert shouted, "I am Mrs. Bovary!" The author and his works like a mother and child, blood is thicker than water, the pain. "A writer wrote the text, but is ultimately associated with the life of their own."  

Summer, the rain gently long lavished on earth. So soft and gentle, cool. The sky clouds wearing light black clothes, covered the sun. A drop, two drops, three drops, in the rain with an umbrella, the rain against the fall on the umbrella, striking out a note.

Shore, the wind blows the hair, Liu to the mirror, the intermittent rain, moisten the skin, drunk it atrial. I do not know when, Liu if that cute little girl, to the stream, over and over again the breakdown of life.


Rain accompanied by wind, blowing not gentle. When Liu was a small long leaves of the trees can not afford, "in that how warm and cold spring, with its moisture sweet tears, wash away the dust in the willow branches scars; it lovey-dovey life tears watering willow dry roots; use it long's selfless tears wetting willow growing heart.

Month by month and year by year, years passed, the rain of Liu's affection, Liu is in your mind? See if you can sense the rain that motherly love and gentleness? Spring, the rain came, quietly with suckling its milk is still in its infancy in the willow. In the world, is it not the case?

The baby was lying in bed, curled up, sleep sweet. Not for a moment, his eyes slowly open, hands clenched into a fist position, body slightly shaking, open tender small mouth, Yiyi ya like to cry. Mother baby sounds awakened, naturally opened clothes, revealing a breast, adequate milk, make breast like a towering mountains, towering white leather, nipple, sleek "mountain", turning to the "mountain" difficult coax baby, hands to tear her clothes, when the hands touch the mother's breast, small mouth touch the mother's nipple, delicious milk from the mother's body, to the baby's body, I do not know that eating milk and again a sleeping baby mother could feel to it no regrets, affection and deep love?