The years are quiet... A bucket of clear water is still there. The fate of this life, the fate of the previous life... What can I talk about? It's just a half-life of love. I still do what I want to do... The origin and the fate of the fate. Why worry about how many times of sorrow? PS: Readers who shout that all the beauty will accept, I'm saying something bad here, you'll get out of here, this book is not written for readers like you.
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The Paleosa of the East