初次見你 我就起了色心
但你別怕 大哥好色有度
流氓有譜大哥沒什麼文化大哥也不會講話
但是大哥愛你呀
初次見你 我就起了色心
但你別怕 大哥好色有度
流氓有譜大哥沒什麼文化大哥也不會講話
但是大哥愛你呀
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My home is in the east of the new district, there are few houses around. There was only an empty bungalow next door. Very quiet.
I stayed in bed all day from 2000 to 2002 because of illness. Feeling extremely gray.
Out of the window. The setting sun colored the whole yard and the mountains beyond with orange. I imagined the leaves falling from the trees, and I began to despair little by little. I buried myself in the preset death inside silent, also afraid of hearing any sound from the outside world. Even if it's a little bit.
The house was lifeless because of my illness, and the TV wasn't turned on. Even three or four - year - old daughters are taught by their lovers to speak softly and walk softly.
I, immersed in the boundless silence. Day after day, sleepless night.
One evening, the next door suddenly came a voice Qinqiang, my fragile nerves almost by this loud voice shattered. Angrily, I asked my wife, who was knitting -- who was singing? His wife said he was a migrant worker who rented the house next door. Having been isolated from the outside world for more than a year, I felt very agitated when I heard the sound.
My wife put down her sweater and poured me a glass of water. "They are not easy either," she said. "They are happy at this time. It's a hard day."
She listened attentively for a while and then said: "Listen, it is your favorite 'Sacrifice Lamp.'"
I listened carefully and curiously. It was really the sacrificial lantern. The singing is not bad, the voice is hoarse, the tone of melancholy is very Qinqiang master Jiao Xiaochun's charm.
Listen to listen to my heart irritability slowly retreated. My thoughts float out of the window, has been floating over the peeling plank road, floating across the Bashan Shushui, floating to my childhood.
Every spring there was a social play in the countryside when I was a child. I was riding on my grandfather's shoulders, with a string of ice-sugar gourds. In the gongs and drums suddenly stopped with a: "back of the tent to turn..." A man came out from behind the curtain with weary steps, trembling to the beat of a drum. There was a sudden silence throughout the theatre. Snack vendors also stopped busy, no longer shuttling through the crowd.
Grandfather smack pipe to say to me: this person - is zhuge Kongming.
So I remember this piece of dark yellow face, remember that wearing soap clothes hand holding sword, dishevelled hair to fluorescent beans under the seven oil lamp worship of the thin body, the Han room to the heaven to pray to borrow a few years of life figure. And the mournful tone of the beards.