The coldest season is not here, the sun
I lost a child pale
heart contraction as a skinny leaves
my face to the wall
the sun began to miss from the past that warm wind
that my eyelashes gently flipping the warm wind ah
scattered to greet him on the roof rack like Days the wind
I know that behind a mirror
a picture inside a red sun hung above the
in some grass around the bird in a few black and white flowers dotting the gliding
Local
falling feathers
white cloud of white fog
dream or the flow of
white curl to close the walls are crawling
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