Standing on the other side of the empty winter day, with the plum fragrance of the next life, light ink to brush, draw half a page of skinny and bony past events, with the cold of the crabapple, staining the vicissitudes of the old times. The time of aging is like a messy line of poetry, and the words are full of sadness. Winter, originally cold, vast, noisy and full of life's tired wounds.
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