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In the glass years of domineering, the rain outside the window pours in the noisy summer. In the irresistible rain, like a pile of fallen crape myrtle, the shocking deep purple makes people dizzy. In the crumbling days of camphor trees, long memories are like flooding irises, and the dense sea of flowers is full of fragrant flowers. In those bright gaps, the wind rising from the corners of the mouth affects the flow direction. Under the umbrella, the cold air eased at that moment, and the rain stopped at the foot was like a river that could not swim, clear, beautiful and boundless. ...

Greedy stretched out his umbrella hand to touch the comfort brought by the rain, and looked up at the black clouds, like black flowers in full bloom. Lagerstroemia indica trees stretched all the way, and rotten branches cut through the sky, drawing a lead-gray wound. In the quiet street, listening to the sound of time breaking, like a fluttering string. There is a lonely little teddy bear in the window under the street lamp, filled with black wind. Watching the bus run over the expanding foam on the road, neon lights, like those bright sunshine fragments, have turned into crystal flowers and slowly opened like ripples on the tired face. A shy poster was put up at the station, and the corner was like the cement forest behind the elm cabinet. The hazy lines are gradually outlined clearly, and the eyes are like words scattered on the asphalt road. I suddenly remembered a sentence that was popular on the Internet one day. "It's not that the ending of the story is not good enough, but that we are too demanding of the story ..."

Perhaps, as Plato said, recalling the past means that you are old.

When the wind blows softly, the track of the rain is disturbed, and the cold air dominates me. I am wrapped in a thin sweater, and the fallen leaves are disintegrating the unforgettable past, like a ferry boat before the rain, and then sailing with the wind, gradually becoming a point and disappearing into this noisy city.

After several hours, the rain finally stopped.

Walking to the central square, I rendered the evening tragedy arranged by Aeschylus and found a quiet place, like a slender hand stroking the water surface of the Seine River. The vast night is wrapped in memories. In those years of glass glaze, each story means a different ending. In those bright or dark pictures, my mouth corners fuse together like an arc, drawing a luxury on the horizon. Half of your face is like a training stone stationed at the seaside, and I, in a stroke of time, carved out your profound beauty, burning smile, like a crying rose growing on the concrete floor, and Leng Yan was proud. ...

Memory is like a hard lead box, which is a world wrapped in neon and darkness. It is quiet enough to hear the sound of flowers clearly. Looking up at fireworks, like a boiling fire, dragging a long tail into the air, chasing one flower after another, and then blooming in the starry sky, like bloodthirsty red-violet devouring the night bit by bit, the ripples slowly spread out, dragging a little tired feet away in the crowd. It is an irreversible proposition that the warm lamp shines on the characters as deep as it is engraved on the wall.

At the beginning of the story, there was a sad foreshadowing, and the blue sky dialysis was somewhat untrue, imitating the ending described by Andersen. However, at the time of writing, I was in tears, like a gray sky, raining and will not stop.

It's not that the ending of the story is not good enough, but that we demand too much from the story …