The prodigal is like the cigarette
Suddenly wrote several small and short very on a sudden impulse, discovered how difficult this road was originally, all knife at the road guest and whether one hundred sheetses of guest become person of foreshadowing, living in one snare of author in fact, alive and die as gorgeous and beautiful as flowers.

The way to pass by where is not it is not like the trace that a knife guest drift. It is beautiful that perhaps exist as aromatic as wine, but aromatic essence always regards time as the cost! I am very the time when the right knife guest of the fear die that section is only beautiful. Because will I can until only the beautiful one dies the of serving even in some day.

Rain with cloud according to appointment to when,it is the eighth day. But I can't experience the taste of this New Year, some are only the trace that drizzle has been eroded in the brain. Then the suspicion relieving oneself very much of mine. Perhaps forget my gustatory bud in a certain corner, or the delighted having a bath in the pond in springtime is not put in the mood.

When if the mountain of the black pigment is drawn, when as being honest such as ink, fashionlifeit is the dimly discernible mist-covered waters, and flower in bloom voice in dream, these all eventually, but trace which the prodigal leaves as cigarette among the towns and villages all over the country, I once opened all during the same season of this flowers, ones that went and old far, old feelings, only want to listen attentively to my colored shadow before disappearing as cigarette. And that wipes simple smile.

It was deep that all thin willow or changes of water in spring were not brought prodigals and can be worth sampling presumably. Then I want very much to say, it is actually a kind of beginning to finish! The mood dislikes this season for end very much and the annual ring stand up. But one hundred sheetses of guest to want, die eventually, a maybe only beautiful one that die!

It fly prediction of a person's luck in a given year it transfer all prosperity to take,everything but it is to be the wandering in floating light and. The life walks in the chapter of the story in a trance. Silent, can see one's own in one hundred sheets of guest's clothes shade, make a return journey as monthly mark a the same one without worldly desires. The same one is elegant as putting out to pasture the white cloud to pass the mountain of the black pigment from the remotest places.

But the breeze of memory is always a flickering trace of brushing the state of mind. Completely red while letting all hearts be silent. Flow through, when where human society is instant, there is a section of long musical instrument sound. Who will it be? Which white clothing woman who once existed in the story perhaps!

Perhaps, all effete and sentimental writings in general, have mark, meet again but make a return journey like wind the same shade too originally. Perhaps, previous existence, what I only offered as a gift and landed on years on the edge leaves the flower. This life, I am just the errant prodigal on the towns and villages all over the country, went again equally indifferently as wind.

Unless turn one's head again, unless unless all footprint of drizzle, like water of spring billowses little is the general, pass, there will be trace   

The prodigal dies with wind equally like the cigarette.
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Posted by: coolpogirl at 09:50 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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