Who can provide the latest good prose, who can give me the best prose?

Hug never, never say goodbye.

Zhang Xiaoxian's.

Chrysanthemum rosemary text Quiet dream.

Chrysanthemum 62616964757a686964616fe59b9ee7ad9431333330343139, blooming in the water. The sound of small crumbling sounds, like the moonlight of that year, the porcelain plate has just grown.

The heart is like a chrysanthemum. The pot of water, like a long rain, flows into a line of poetry. There should be a favorite back, and turning around is only an instant.

However, I hope that warm moment is the beginning of a long time. So, those moments: soft, quiet, in the poem, but deliberately hide a waiting heart.

Half of the pot is dark green gum, which covers half of the memory. I believe that if there is an event to wait for, while slowly and calmly soft, while hiding the craziest tidbits in the world.

The chrysanthemum that blooms in the water is beige, clear and transparent. If the simple white is not enough to paint it, you add a little lemon yellow, and then add a little green, and the texture will faintly reveal a light ivory color, which is very subtle. Like some whispers that can only be understood but not spoken.

Extending along the beige, the coffee is evenly dyed, and the flower stalk is gently moved by the deep gray-green ferry. The depths of the waters, the tenderness of the heart, have you noticed?

The softness of a chrysanthemum is bounced off by you in the water. That piece of music was played into a graceful one. Watery, slow. It's like a waiting dusk, a piece of ink rises in the wind and clouds, and the memory, in a trance in the fragrance of flowers, blooms one by one, one by one.

Of course, some unprovoked imagination is just a gesture of aphasia. But in the irritable and noisy world, at least the plot has a little more light for a moment. There is no trace of deep research, only when I read these shallow words many years later, I hope that my heart is still warm, at least some memories, can be silently opened and sweet.

Thinking of these, I miss the days when I was young and raised chrysanthemums. At that time, outside the bar, there was a language of flowers everywhere. Sitting in a dream, looking at the chrysanthemum's eyes are deep and poetic.

Those drunken ink buds lit up, in the corner of the wall, patchwork like a shadow. We interpret a virtual time, but we don't know what kind of brightness and quietness there is in the word game disrupted by time.

When the sun is slightly cool, if you open the window, you will find that the light source on the pot also has a damp heart. Along the old time, the deep paving down, the reflected things are getting farther and farther away, silently. At this moment, only you know that such a silent chrysanthemum floating in the water makes people amazed to see all their past dust, and it is gloomy.

If, with a thin pen to draw the beauty of chrysanthemum, you can see the intermittent love silk in that color, with a little bit of resentment. If there is light falling on the dead branches outside the window, you have to believe that the sadness and joy of a moment come from something and not from a memory. It's like in a dream, and you're going to leave.

And what can we do but let go of our hearts and let go?

Actually, life is not like this. It is always the poignancy of a pot of epiphany. In the night, quietly approaching for a dream, and then withering. However, how fragrant and feminine the bloom once was.

Prose is not, prose poetry is not? The best! Title: "Meeting you is my most beautiful accident".

Swing, swinging in the wind, people, quiet in a daze.

Memories are like the sea in front of you, a messy picture.

It can't be programmed for a while.

The dressing table in the west building is covered with the dust of time.

The eyebrow pencil can't draw the former look, how can a blush be.

Will the loneliness be covered?

The maple leaves are red and defeated, and the smoke and water are blank and waiting.

Autumn goes and autumn comes again, that whistle.

Still floating in the Aegean Sea.

Stay outside the world and tear down Autumn's thoughts one by one.

String together the heart of autumn and dance to the beat.

Awakened the sleeping feelings.

In the vast sea of people, I found the code card of memory.

The whispers of the previous life are still vaguely there, at this moment, the sea of hearts.

Began to surge for love again.

The familiar path is paved with moss, and I, don't let the tears fall!

One voice. Spread from the bottom of my heart, this is waiting! ”

That's what to expect! ”

That's what to expect! ”

Lu Xun and Zhu Ziqing's prose is very good.

Ancient Analects, Zhuangzi, Mencius, Han Feizi, Xunzi, Shiji, Hanshu, Zizhi Tongjian, Luoyang Jialanji, Shuijing Note.

Modern Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, Yu Dafu, Zhang Ailing.

Contemporary Shi Tiesheng, Wang Zengqi, Sun Li, Huang Shang, Wei An, etc.

Foreign: Montaigne, Rousseau, Bacon, Lamb, Emerson, Thoreau, E. White, Prishvin, Baustovsky.

Liang Heng's "Shoot the Railing All Over", Zhou Guoping's prose, Tie Ning, Yu Qiuyu and so on are all good.

Xu Zhimo, Zhu Ziqing, Lu Xun, all good!