Classics in year, of memory fragrance（经年里，记忆的馨香）
Memory always is so piquant sometimes with but, in time of all previous classics after filtering, let what I see be like the garment character that hide after the wall together and shows only. The nature that can show is closer, deeper, and those are far, shallow, resembling is the sandwich biscuits that wrapped icing, everything be mingled with is worn, lapping, put in memorial extreme. Always think I already went aground them, but be in casual early morning and eventide, I see memory constantly fragrance, taking its peculiar as before, let me smell instantly the peculiar flavor in the years when those. The sort of feeling, resemble the wind that is early morning, now.. is close now.. is far, pure and fresh and do not break its true, insipid not unfamiliar however.
When having a lot of people, loneliness and become silent can be flooded by mirth probably; A lot of things want busy when, desolate and kink are met by temporary oblivion; But when everything calm, busy was over, a person became quiet accession, a few vast and familiar feeling can be in the heart, in the head, and even appear in eye shade. I often have such a few feelings, see the thing of certain likeness for example, can can't help free time is thought of, the feeling that for an instant a kind of old times has appeared diffuses in at the moment, the breath that accompanying me after that let me smell the flavour in its days. Always feel each paragraphs of memory, even if just hit a sneeze, engrave then in those day can have its inherent flavor. Be? When we are recalling that paragraph of time that licks lollipop with young associate, of the lollipop in days sweet the taste that accompanying memory to blend in you? When we are holding a book in both hands to read, in turn over a page casually, didn't you smell the Mo Xiang that when you take a book in some hour, ever smelled?
Noiseless unmanned early morning, when me a person goes at a quiet canal by oneself alone, of wind cool and refreshing with feeling dark emerge, total meeting lets me thinking a lot of a lot of things. A lot of moment those feeling are so stream-of-consciousness, this still is wanting to want the thing that do in the morning momently, below one second involves so-and-so, such-and-such content. Every time at this moment, I am gutty be like the feeling that ever was acquainted, similar setting emerges again in memory come out, faint in smelled the breath in its days. In its days, also be such early morning, wind is light, the small grass by the path still is hanging dew, what there is spy of flowers and plants to have in air is pure and fresh. I in those days am looking at this unmanned canal, ever confused recall lives life; Ever distressed placing stubborn ground to thinking next how should the route go; Ever also had waved the feeling with a few lonesome loneliness, eyeful desolate comes loose full one ground.
Be in a daze is alone person the thing that often does, the sigh is desolate person when the music of chart. Memorial breath depends on constantly however go up in these petty action, send out accidentally of purpose in you give its peculiar years to fragrance. See dim street lamp sometimes, I always can remember the back that goes via my person in year. The route that a person takes is so long, also be so close. Long is alone those who walk always is a person, did not know to sigh in the heart all the way. Close is OK calm is thinking associate with a variety of and that shining for me all the time lamp in the home, distance is mixed in my sentiment in expecting, shortened gradually. Today when the lamplight when comes loose to go up in my face, a variety of mood in year still meet those excessive swings in the heart. The route that those one person in memory takes always is some cold and cheerless, depressing feeling recollects airy up to now rise to still have some of bleak.
It year desk, the window of old times, it is the most familiar and kind reason friend in my memory. Those ligneous desk and chairs, and a few only windows are souvenir of the material in scallion years. Often sit before the window, memory resembles the arrow of one fragmented bend, rapid ground passes through desk of that book stack, waving everywhere pulverous book is sweet spatio-temporal. I can smell according to clear I and with desk touching ink marks two pieces that, overflowing sweat, still writing the taste of the desk of a few small character. Chair or it year chair, the window still is the window of old times, just sit up in days we became the person that sees a landscape. It leaves us recollect only, remember only fragrance.
Appear in me to give birth to those flowers that hit the target, it is the wind-bell before I am hanged in memorial door, when remembering, total meeting noise has euphonic swing. Those my flowers people, are you not bad? I am constant the brook along memory, in returning that flower nursery that once you have me, thinking us to breathe together, get wet in the rain together, grow together often. Dimple in that pure, in the day with bright sunshine, we had cried, had laughed, kink passes, make public passes, traitorous over- , weep to be being taken repeatedly stubborn, the corners of the mouth when remembering now the raise on total meeting. Dear flower people, time is a skunk really, I fear really to meet those who forgot you feel kind. But be at ease please, there once was a flower below the sky that I can remember me the opening of so static beauty passes.
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