When I was in high school, I liked these two poets very much, the genius Rimbaud and the delicate Verlaine. The book of poems at home is still on the bookshelf, and some of my favorite poems are folded. The verses can be ten lines at a glance, but the artistic conception full of wanton wildness is still blingbling shining.
I haven't felt such intense love in a long time. The gun was pointed, the knife was poked straight down, and said, say you love me. Eyes full of tears and nervous expressions.
Leonado said coldly in it, that there is no love at all, and those self-righteous loves are self-interested and selfish. That moth-to-fire love was extremely cold on his pale, slender face.
This love is too heavy
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