casionally a few clouds, a touch of gold. The yellow layer spread out and spread
between the heavens and the earth. It was the sun, it was a sunny day. I didn't
expect to have a sunny day in Zhouzhuang. The mood was a little sunny. Looking
at my mother, she found her smile a lot easier. Mother led I walked in front.
The narrow path was narrow and there were half-personal rapeseed fields on both
sides. The golden ones were connected in a piece, swaying and stretching to the
horizon. The sun was like water, flowing, and everything was in your arms. I
haven't seen it for a long time, sunny day. The mother walked in front and
stopped, and she turned around, and the sun shone on her face. She smiled
slightly, and the cauliflower behind her came in a wave. On a sunny day. Next,
her eyes were wrinkled. I remembered to come here with her for the first time.
She had long hair and waist and smiled young and beautiful. Today's smile adds a
bit of vicissitudes and long hair is cut. When she was to me Said, it was a
sunny day. I grew up slowly, she gradually grew older, I seem to go on another
sunny day, she is only behind me, silently. I am awkward to understand her
"lively" these days, is to I will get back to the sunny day. I will go around
and go round and round
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that she is the sunny day I will always have. No matter whether it is rainy or
sunny, I will always have a sunny day. Looking at her, she smiled at her. [Part
4] The mother sat on a short stool in the courtyard. It was the evening, and the
red tongue fluttering in the iron bucket, in the unclear twilight, it looked
awkward. And when I was twelve years old, I curled up in the house and stared at
my mother. The mother clung to the long tongs and focused on the iron bucket,
and the scattered Mars flew high and high. Like a group of golden butterflies.
After a while, the mother put down the tongs, took a diary from the side and
cast it into the tin bucket. The fire burned even more. The blazing fire burned
her the vicissitudes of life. The face is red Don't have a moving charm. She is
burning her diary for half a lifetime, and there are more than 20 books! The
mother's handwriting is slender and beautiful, and one stroke is like Tingting,
like a beautiful girl dancing on the music box. Now, They were swallowed up by
the fire. They didn't hurt. I didn't talk to my mother. Her face was tight, as
if it was broken. I can feel it, in this gloomy afternoon, in the mother's life.
There is something in this afternoon, on this gloomy afternoon, forever flowing
away. However, at that time I was too young to know exactly what year the mother
burned the diary
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happened that I just started writing The year of the diary. At that time
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half a year. On the night of silence, I carefully opened the heart lock, poured
out all the things in my heart, grievances and dissatisfaction, and got relief
through the complaints of the surplus paper. Frustration and anger are appeased
by the venting of the language. The diary is a good balance of my sensitive
emotions. It is my sweet baby. So, that afternoon, the full yard is flying gray.
Awkward afternoon. I really don't understand how my mother would burn her baby
for so many years. Life is water and diary is fish. It details the temperature
of the water, the density of the water, the ecology of the water, and the
direction of the water. Life is a river. In the young years without the need of
the world, you need the shackles of the fish to create a silent enthusiasm. Once
you enter a certain day, you will love the clarification of the fish without a
fish. When you have one day, you will find that the purest is the most pleasant
in the world. When I heard the sound, I used to have it in the past.
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