Qq349139762

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　　人生不停地在�月的�幻�交�，�多曾�很特�的��都在�海中缓缓平息，甚至消散得�有了�影。偶尔 有些回�都如�掠��起伏�漾。人生仿佛像��的浏�器，壹旦��了�接就注定�法回�。想回�，也是已不 �或者已不能了。于是只有��朝前走，即使是已�身心疲�！
QQ349139762


　　��逝去，我�都在成�。成�中的我�，在壹次次考��束後捧回的��，在壹次次得到确定和��的目光 中，在壹次次��困�的�候，都��略到幸福的味道，�然�中多了壹份苦�，可是依然觉得了幸福，幸福就在 我�身�。









幸福很��，��得在它�到我�身�的�候，我�基本��察�,Franklin & Marshall。在�找幸福的大��，我�缺乏的是�榜"真正幸福含�"的旗�。幸福是壹�感�，�感�到了，便是�有。 珍爱全体的�有，就是最幸福的人。


　　于是我在那刻起我便�始告�自己，幸福�我不�，也�她正在什麽处所等著我的出�，有���相遇，�� ��擦肩而�的躲�。�此壹切�然。

　　也�，幸福�不是壹�完善和永恒，而是心�跟生涯�物的壹�感�和共�，是壹�性命和�程的美�，是壹 ��心�生活的感�和�悟。就像花朵在拂晓前�放的壹刻，秋�在�落的短瞬�，�手相看的�眼，心中的月亮 �缺…那每�快�的�光都是幸福的。

　　��在想，幸福�我有多�？�被自己壹�壹�的理由颠覆，原�，幸福壹直就在我身�。很小很小的�候， 有�人�暖的�抱，有可�可�的夥伴陪著自在的游玩，壹起唱著的歌如��的�叫�回�在大天然�于的每壹� �落，那��候，幸福就在身�。


(义务编纂：眸馨远)
　　�大以後，面�著���的�喜、苦楚、��，��自己再也不是那壹�白�，上面有了太多太多的�案。� �著壹次次的��後，痛�後，猛然��幸福�得很快，走得也快。只是，幸福�在的�候，�有尽力捉住它，是 自己放走了幸福，回到原�，壹�人孤�的走。也�良多人也壹�，幸福在的�候，淡淡的，壹旦失去了才晓得� 有，可那��候，幸福不�再停下�步�等�，不�的。



　　壹直都�得自己�幸福�不��，��也找不到，于是居心去做壹�流浪的人,Franklin Marshalle，�在不知不��似乎�幸福又近了壹步。
　　幸福是什麽？是本人�心的感�，而不是�人的��。真正的幸福和悲痛，只有自己才懂,franklin marshalle pas cher，每�人的幸福含�，都不�雷同吧？��香�，富���就壹定幸福麽？竹�茅舍，小�清茶，短笛�箫，和� 的最�相�壹笑，�又能�不是人生的幸福和快�呢？然後�于清楚了幸福其�就是壹�感�，�感 �到了,Achat Franklin Marshall，便是�有。爱护�有，便是幸福。

　　成�的�程���有些意外的�喜和意外的悲�跳�在面前,Franklin et Marshall。壹�能够�意撒�的年�是乎���去，好像生命中最初的�真就那����不舍地留在�初那�粹的心性�了 。�面��世界�出不�的����于忍不住在眼神�注�了�奈�。我懂得的少年�那段�光的可 �。


would not dare to say even shy a few words

weaving a cocoon in the empty black skins

月老，你把我的红线丢哪啦？


We were driving along the road from Treguier to Kervanda. We passed at a smart trot between the hedges topping an earth wall on each side of the road; then at the foot of the steep ascent before Ploumar the horse dropped into a walk, and the driver jumped down heavily from the box. He flicked his whip and climbed the incline, stepping clumsily uphill by the side of the carriage, one hand on the footboard, his eyes on the ground. After a while he lifted his head, pointed up the road with the end of the whip, and said--
"The idiot!"
The sun was shining violently upon the undulating surface of the land. The rises were topped by clumps of meagre trees, with their branches showing high on the sky as if they had been perched upon stilts. The small fields, cut up by hedges and stone walls that zig-zagged over the slopes, lay in rectangular patches of vivid greens and yellows, resembling the unskilful daubs of a naive picture. And the landscape was divided in two by the white streak of a road stretching in long loops far away, like a river of dust crawling out of the hills on its way to the sea.
"Here he is," said the driver, again.
In the long grass bordering the road a face glided past the carriage at the level of the wheels as we drove slowly by. The imbecile face was red, and the bullet head with close-cropped hair seemed to lie alone, its chin in the dust. The body was lost in the bushes growing thick along the bottom of the deep ditch.