Forehead. A little bit of literature and art. If you don't like it, don't criticize it.
I was looking through my diary today and found an article I wrote in 2007. . .
Early Summer
Summer is here again, and all the diaries are like the fallen leaves in late autumn, turning and fading away.
The sun protested strongly, and I walked around helplessly.
The memory still lies in my heart this summer, this summer.
Even my dreams are too lazy to fall asleep.
When you wake up suddenly in the middle of the night without dreams, you will suddenly forget where you are.
In this boundless night, many summer days flow away from your fingers.
The days roll by day by day, and I don't know if I am still the same person.
All friends have the state of falling into the dust. Helpless, helpless, dancing lightly at night, the dance is messy.
The moon is charming and people are intoxicated.
I am willing to forget what year it was now and then, so I return from one summer far away to another.
not
But I know clearly that this world does not belong to me...
Whoever listens to my tired voice, who looks at my depressed eyes;
This world; this life; I have become accustomed to finding happiness in pain.
This world no longer belongs to me; this life has also begun to deceive me; I want to be free, suitable for free, where to free, give up.
