Jeremy's.

This morning's breeze came to salute me, caressing my hair when I opened the brown interregnum frame which was quite fragile. The wind carried the uncontaminated scent of morning and morning dew dripping on the floweret beside my window. I remember how you used to always greet me in the morning and show me a warm simper that made my bone-chilling mornings prepossessing. But this morning I lost that one thing. The crossroads this afternoon are so different, you don't perambulate beside me while talking about the day. Today's microenvironment is always prepossessing, but not as prepossessing as yesterday. Tonight I returned to my latitude with a strange feeling, am I missing something in my heart? I still have everything but I no longer have you. This house feels weird. Haven't we ever painted memories together in this room? Even tonight no one asked about how my day was, no soft voice asked about my temperament, no mane touched me. I distinguish unattended.

Write more clerihews. A sense of power cannot just die. With rhyme I put out the request; a boat on a river that combs its currents. With rhymes I dedicate love; flowers in the wind that pollinates their pistils. The grass also anesthetizes the soul with the cold night. Following my frozen silence trying to speak, stringing together a verse of nature. Silence enveloped the earth. All that remains is the sound of falling leaves composing rhymes in the dark expanse. With rhyme I incised wounds; the forest in the city that permeates its antiquity. With rhymes I leave longing; the sea on the shore that salts its foam. Beautiful brilliantly exchanged too. I thou in the box lies. I'm a doll, you're a doll. Penyelang the dalang paraded the rhyme. Love is a star of the beauty of poetry. Love is the essence of life. And who gets full love, he has eternal happiness.

I heard the silence when the wind ushered in the morning scattering the blades of light in the mist. A breath of air whispers silent verses one morning, which then disappears into the longing gaps of your eyes. The morning becomes so brittle, when we slowly put notes on each other's dreams that we haven't finished exploring. The twilight is dim among the thickets of weeds, how long the wound dwells in the chambers of solitude. I heard the silence when the wind ushered in the morning scattering the blades of light in the mist. A breath of air whispers silent verses one morning, which then disappears into the longing gaps of your eyes.

The morning becomes so brittle, when we slowly put notes on each other's dreams that we haven't finished exploring. The twilight is dim among the thickets of weeds, how long the wound dwells in the chambers of solitude. This evening, quietly descending from the top of the hill of memories, brings a piece of memory about the past that long ago resided in the tops of the longing trees, a pair of orapods, chirping boisterously in the yellow branches. How, morning is a book of longing that we never finish translating. I'm looking for the rest of last night's rain. maybe in between the grains I can still find a piece of memory that I used to leave. The moon hangs between the thick bamboo petung leaves, as well as the dream of wandering in the vastness of the universe that is so empty.