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life will not see you, because goodbye is not you, mind you never reproduce, reproduction, and only those fleeting years of vicissitudes.
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northern autumn is always bleak, with the endless yellow leaves swirling in the west only.

pattering of the drops in the condenser hanging out the window, rainy night in late summer is always sad inexplicable people, a season will soon be over, I do not know whether the fall in which the lonely have this feeling it!

blossom, Claustrophobia, who together were scattered, people thinking people. Since ancient times, fall is always sad, parting seems to be synonymous with fall. We may be doomed, we can only love this season of fall, when winter arrives, we will separate.

September sun is still dazzling, my heart is very heavy, after the defeat in the test,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I reduced to a tutorial students. Plaintive cries, cries of blame, so that I will be sad depressed in his heart, not outside the diarrhea. So in school I always debauchery,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], laughter, and only she, a love of fantasy, the girl can sing only really know my heart.

she always so gentle and lovely, even as my girlfriend, she is pure and innocent. The power of love is closely linked us together. With her, I will not feel so hypocritical, because she loves me, and only in front of her I'm the real me, because I understand her grief, she can share my everything, I always in front of her is naked, I do not need to cheat. She always likes to hear me sing, my tone deaf voice always fascinated her, I asked what she liked me in the end, she said she did not know, maybe like my sorrow, perhaps like my past, in short, In her eyes I was so perfect,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I am her everything.I always like to hold her hand, her hand always gives me warm,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I feel I am her care. At this point, I think I was the happiest person, who gains and to any errors in this life, perhaps, she is God gave me comfort, I feel true love exists. I love her because we're going down, because she paid too much for me.

autumn is always sad, and we love also will be sad, we broke up, I still like debauchery, she is still the same gentle, but she and I there is a layer between the invisible wall , who do not touch, we have the same dead end line, and not saying a word. All in all blame me, do not know why, I chose to give up a well in the snow will be halted by the dawn. Since then, only her eyes filled with hate, she hates me why I would give up, she was so in love with me, care about me, I'm thoughtful, I have no reason to give up, if I do not like, in respect of refuse from the beginning, why the depths of love to give up She did not understand why I do, in fact, I do not know why I chose to give up, I clearly feel that they love her, when I will give her the occasion of my heart, I give up, so happy and I'm passing out.

last autumn chrysanthemum wither in the wind, I looked in the past, look at the distance this season, how much laughter, much happiness, they will fall in this farewell occasion to fly away. One after another love song, sing the secret hearts of many people, how many of the sad along with the song in my heart. The seeds of hatred is love, love to hate, is the case in life, love, protect, and pain, and my heart is broken, and finally hated. I hate, I hate my own ignorance, I hate myself to give up, she hates, I hate to give up, hate me heartless, from love to hate, her heart has experienced countless bitterness and happiness, and all this only stems from her so in love with me. Past is still beautiful, only a commitment to burn memory.

all over, everything is a foregone conclusion, why should my footsteps with this quest, since I have given up, they should keep walking, heart miss, there are shadows of memory , we should let them scattered in the wind, gone with the wind, and the love of her heart should be buried, to soothe the wounds of the heart. The development of something destined to have a conclusion, we should enjoy its beautiful process,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], when she pass us by, we should learn to forget.

When love is no longer perfect, I prefer sorry, no matter how beautiful the next life,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I can not lose the memory of your life.

with faded autumn, I am with her into the next reincarnation.

transform the season as we love, season, a reincarnation.
TAG Tag: love, life cycle of loss of memory
(Editor: sammy)

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.