Then not see that hint of sunset glow

Alive not always hope, but can live with hope, but also have the courage to live.
Such as the setting sun shone blood his pale face, he really felt old, like winter, the old trees, involuntarily sentimental, after all, youth is a priceless ticket, bleach the memory, but Bleaching is not white that in the past. No longer the familiar dark past, and the rest is wrinkled by years of wind and the roots grow old, previously seen with his eyes black pearl has become muddy at the moment, gazing with a sort of hope that Enron . Years is a vast river, see the end of the river but never see it start. Ears are not so great for one man in this evening, so vast a wonderful thing, sitting on the roof of his son home, he felt he really is old. A person's home, a person's back, overlooking the horizon, casual white clouds looming in Hongxia, wind, like light, but always kept wandering footsteps, in this floating in a kind of familiar strangers. It is a difficult word to say strange, strange get a little sad. Unconsciously, that the soil in the familiar warmth of the kind of return, as well as that the original desire of freedom, once again swept the heart. He still remembers that time of yourself, toe wrapped in the cloak of earth, who exudes the simple Chinese peasant, every sunrise sky, sunset and return, although the clothes are often salty sweat with an acidity my heart is sweet. At least, that time itself is not a dead weight of the unreliable person; at least, that time of fieldwork smoke curl upwards, always looks a bit impersonal. However, the years such as the bell, the pace of human history, repeated over and over again the track, but never going the original that place. Time is the progress of the times, people are modern people, but those birds are flying long grass the day, those who love flighty young unassuming, never disappeared, replaced by overwhelming the building, rumbling machines, there is no on busy nights and Manjuan not the thick cloud Black Mist. Topics created, but the ancient poem, the children eager eyes of paradise. Occasionally a bird flying over the air, he laughed, like a wayward child. That year, in the courtyard to the two Heibuliuqiu what Batman was like a small thing, what the kids excited gotta like, craned his neck to journeying looked, he kept giggling like those happy memories and worry-free.
Time really is time the most ruthless thing, the loss is not life, it is the original innocence....

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