Ray Bradbury He stopped the lawn mower in the middie of the yard, because he felt that the  sun at just that moment had gone down and the stars come out. The fresh-cut grass that had showered his face and body died soft!y away. Yes, the stars were there, faint at first, but brightening in the clear desert sky. He heard the porch screen door tap shut and felt his wife watching him as he watched the night."Almost time," she said.He nodded; he did not have to check his watch. In the passing moments he felt very old, then very young, very cold, then very warm, now this, now that. Suddenly he was miles away. He was his own son talking steadily, moving briskly to cover his pounding heart and the resurgent panics as he felt himself slip into fresh uniform, check food supplies, oxygen flasks, pressure helmet, space-suiting, and turn as every man on earth tonight turned, to gaze at the swiftly filling sky.Then, quickly, he was back, once more the father of the son, hands gripped to the lawn-mower handle. His wife called, "Come sit on the porch.""I've got to keep busy!"She came down the steps and across the lawn. "Don't worry about Robert; he'll be all right.""But it's all so new," he heard himself say. "It's never been done before. Think of it - a manned rocket going up tonight to build the first space station. Good lord, it can't be done, it doesn't exist, there's no rocket, no proving ground, no take-off time, no technicians. For that matter, I don't even have a son named Bob. The whole thing's too much for me!""Then what are you doing out here, staring?"He shook his head. "Well, late this morning, walking to the office, I heard someone laugh out loud. It shocked me, so I froze in the middle of the street. It was me, laughing! Why? Because finally I really knew what Bob was going to do tonight; at last I believed it. Holy is a word I never use, but that's how I felt stranded in all that traffic. Then, middle of the afternoon I caught myself humming. You know the song. 'A wheel in a wheel. Way in the middle of the air.' I laughed again. The space station, of course, I thought. The big wheel with hollow spokes where Bob'll live six or eight months, then get along to the moon. Walking home, I remembered more of the song. 'Little wheel run by faith, Big wheel run by the grace of God.' I wanted to jump, yell, and flame-out myself!"His wife touched his arm. "If we stay out here, let's at least be comfortable."They placed two wicker rockers in the center of the lawn and sat quietly as the stars dissolved out of darkness in pale crushings of rock salt strewn from horizon to horizon."Why," said his wife, at last, "it's like waiting for the fireworks at Sisley Field every year.""Bigger crowd tonight . . .""I keep thinking - a billion people watching the sky right now, their mouths all open at the same time."They waited, feeling the earth move under their chairs."What time is it now?""Eleven minutes to eight.""You're always right; there must be a clock in your head.""I can't be wrong tonight. I'll be able to tell you one second before they blast off. Look! The ten-minute warning!"On the western sky they saw four crimson flares open out, float shimmering down the wind above the desert, then sink silently to the extinguishing earth.In the new darkness the husband and wife did not rock in their chairs.After a while he said, "Eight minutes." A pause. "Seven minutes." What seemed a much longer pause. "Six . . ."His wife, her head back, studied the stars immediately above her and murmured, "Why?" She closed her eyes. "Why the rockets, why tonight? Why all this? I'd like to know."He examined her face, pale in the vast powdering light of the Milky Way. He felt the stirring of an answer, but let his wife continue."I mean it's not that old thing again, is it, when people asked why men climbed Mt. Everest and they said, 'Because it's there'? I never understood. That was no answer to me."Five minutes, he thought. Time ticking . . . his wrist watch . . . a wheel in a wheel . . . little wheel run by . . . big wheel run by . . . way in the middle of . . . four minutes! . . . The men snug in the rocket by now, the hive, the control board flickering with light.His lips moved."All I know is it's really the end of the beginning. The Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age; from now on we'll lump all those together under one big name for when we walked on Earth and heard the birds at morning and cried with envy. Maybe we'll call it the Earth Age, or maybe the Age of Gravity. Millions of years we fought gravity. When we were amoebas and fish we struggled to get out of the sea without gravity crushing us. Once safe on the shore we fought to stand upright without gravity breaking our new invention, the spine, tried to walk without stumbling, run without falling. A billion years Gravity kept us home, mocked us with wind and clouds, cabbage moths and locusts. That's what's so god-awful big about tonight . . . it's the end of old man Gravity and the age we'll remember him by, for once and all. I don't know where they'll divide the ages, at the Persians, who dreamt of flying carpets, or the Chinese, who all unknowing celebrated birthdays and New Years with strung ladyfingers and high skyrockets, or some minute, some incredible second the next hour. But we're in at the end of a billion years trying, the end of something long and to us humans, anyway, honorable."Three minutes . . . two minutes fifty-nine seconds . . . two minutes fifty-eight seconds . . ."But," said his wife, "I still don't know why."Two minutes, he thought. Ready? Ready? Ready? The far radio voice calling. Ready! Ready! Ready! The quick, faint replies from the humming rocket. Check! Check! Check!Tonight, he thought, even if we fail with this first, we'll send a second and a third ship and move on out to all the planets and later, all the stars. We'll just keep going until the big words like immortal and forever take on meaning. Big words, yes, that's what we want. Continuity. Since our tongues first moved in our mouths we've asked, What does it all mean? No other question made sense, with death breathing down our necks. But just let us settle in on ten thousand worlds spinning around ten thousand alien suns and the question will fade away. Man will be endless and infinite, even as space is endless and infinite. Man will go on, as space goes on, forever. Individuals will die as always, but our history will reach as far as we'll ever need to see into the future, and with the knowledge of our survival for all time to come, we'll know security and thus the answer we've always searched for. Gifted with life, the least we can do is preserve and pass on the gift to infinity. That's a goal worth shooting for.The wicker chairs whispered ever so softly on the grass.One minute."One minute," he said aloud."Oh!" His wife moved suddenly to seize his hands. "I hope that Bob . . .""He'll be all right!""Oh, God, take care . . ." Thirty seconds."Watch now."Fifteen, ten, five . . ."Watch!"Four, three, two, one."There! There! Oh, there, there!"They both cried out. They both stood. The chairs toppled back, fell flat on the lawn. The man and his wife swayed, their hands struggled to find each other, grip, hold. They saw the brightening color in the sky and, ten seconds later, the great uprising comet burn the air, put out the stars, and rush away in fire flight to become another star in the returning profusion of the Milky Way. The man and wife held each other as if they had stumbled on the rim of an incredible cliff that faced an abyss so deep and dark there seemed no end to it. Staring up, they heard themselves sobbing and crying. Only after a long time were they able to speak."It got away, it did, didn't it?""Yes . . .""It's all right, isn't it?""Yes . . . yes . . .""It didn't fall back . . .?""No, no, it's all right, Bob's all right, it's all right."They stood away from each other at last.He touched his face with his hand and looked at his wet fingers. "I'll be damned," he said, "I'll be damned."They waited another five and then ten minutes until the darkness in their heads, the retina, ached with a million specks of fiery salt. Then they had to close their eyes."Well," she said, "now let's go in."He could not move. Only his hand reached a long way out by itself to find the lawn-mower handle. He saw what his hand had done and said, "There's just a little more to do . . .""But you can't see.""Well enough," he said. "I must finish this. Then we'll sit on the porch awhile before we turn in."He helped her put the chairs on the porch and sat her down and then walked back out to put his hands on the guide bar of the lawn mower. The lawn mower. A wheel in a wheel. A simple machine which you held in your bands, which you sent on ahead with a rush and a clatter while you walked behind with your quiet philosophy. Racket, followed by warm silence. Whirling wheel, then soft footfall of thought.I'm a billion years old, he told himself; I'm one minute old. I'm one inch, no, ten thousand miles, tall. I look down and can't see my feet they're so far off and gone away below.He moved the lawn mower. The grass showering up fell softly around him; he relished and savored it and felt that he was all mankind bathing at last in the fresh waters of the fountain of youth.Thus bathed, he remembered the song again about the wheels and the faith and the grace of God being way up there in the middle of the sky where that single star, among a million motionless stars, dared to move and keep on moving.Then he finished cutting the grass.

The day my fiancé fell to his death, it started to snow, just like any November day, just like the bottom hadn't fallen out of my world when he freefell off the roof. His body, when I found it, was lightly covered with snow. It snowed almost every day for the next four months, while I sat on the couch and watched it pile up.
　　One morning, I shuffled downstairs and was startled to see a snowplow clearing my driveway and the bent back of a woman shoveling my walk. I dropped to my knees, crawled through the living room, and back upstairs so those good Samaritans would not see me. I was mortified. My first thought was, how would I ever repay them? I didn't have the strength to brush my hair let alone shovel someone's walk.
　　Before Jon's death, I took pride in the fact that I rarely asked for help or favors. I defined myself by my competence and independence. So who was I if I was no longer capable and busy? How could I respect myself if all I did was sit on the couch everyday and watch the snow fall?
　　Learning how to receive the love and support that came my way wasn't easy. Friends cooked for me and I cried because I couldn't even help them set the table. "I'm not usually this lazy," I wailed. Finally, my friend Kathy sat down with me and said, "Mary, cooking for you is not a chore. I love you and I want to do it. It makes me feel good to be able to do something for you."
　　Over and over, I heard similar sentiments from the people who supported me during those dark days. One very wise man told me, "You are not doing nothing. Being fully open to your grief may be the hardest work you will ever do."
　　I am not the person I once was, but in many ways I have changed for the better. The fabric of my life is now woven with gratitude and humility. I have been surprised to learn that there is incredible freedom that comes from facing one's worst fear and walking away whole. I believe there is strength in surrender.

Schoolboy: Excuse me, Miss, I'm calling just to tell you I can't go to school today.
　　Teacher: Why? What's wrong?
　　Schoolboy: I don't feel well.
　　Teacher: Where do you feel trouble?
　　Schoolboy: In the classroom.
　　Love
　　Father: My son, I punish you because I love you.
　　Son: I know, Dad, but I shouldn't get so much love.
　　Letters From Sons
　　Two men in the college were talking about their sons. “My son's letters always send me to the dictionary,” said one man.
　　“Then you are quite lucky,” said the other. “My son's letters always send me to the bank.”
　　A “Hero”
　　Journalist: Why did you jump into the river to save that boy?
　　Hero: I had to do so, because he was wearing my coat.
　　I Thought It Was Mine
　　Husband: Oh, dear! Someone stole my wallet.
　　Wife: What? Didn't you feel a hand in your pocket?
　　Husband: Yes, but… but I thought it was mine.
　　A Real Man
　　Mr. Smith: Oh, God! I left my wallet under the pillow. What shall I do?
　　His friend: Don't worry. Your maid is an honest woman, isn't she?
　　Mr. Smith: Yes, But she will give it to my wife.
　　The Name
　　The doctor said to the nurse, “Go and ask the patient what his name is, so that we can inform his parents.”
　　After a while, the nurse came back and said, “the patient said that his parents know his name.”
　　A Silly Husband
　　One morning Mrs. Perry said to her husband, “Jack, there's a meeting of our ladies' club at Mrs. Young's House at lunch time today, and I want to go to it. I'll leave you some food for your lunch. Is that all right?”
　　“Oh, yes,” her husband answered, “that's quite all right. What are you going to leave for my lunch?”
　　“This tin of fish,” Mrs. Perry said,” And there are some cold boiled potatoes and some beans here, too.”
　　“Good.” Then Mrs. Perry went to her meeting. All the ladies had lunch at Mrs. Young's house, and at three o' clock Mrs. Perry came home.
　　“Was your fish nice, Jack?” she asked.
　　“Yes, but my feet are hurting,” he answered.
　　“Why are they hurting?” Mrs. Perry asked.
　　“Well, on the tin it was written-OPEN THE TIN AND STAND IN HOT WATER FOR FIVE MINUTES.”
　　Let me Have It
　　A little boy went to the dentist as he had a terrible toothache, The dentist checked his teeth and decided to pull the bad tooth out When the operation was over, the boy asked the doctor to let him have that tooth.
　　“What do you want it for?” the dentist was surprised. “I am going to take it home, fill it with sugar and watch it ache.” The boy said with all sincerity.

One day in the dead of winter, I looked out my back window and saw a chicken. It was jet-black with a crimson wattle, and it seemed unaware that it was in New York City. In classic barnyard fashion, it was scratching, pecking and clucking.
　　How it came to a small backyard in Astoria, Queens, remains a matter of conjecture. The chicken made its first appearance next door, at the home of a multitude of cabdrivers from Bangladesh. My wife, Nancy, and I figured they had bought the chicken and were fattening it for a feast. That hypothesis fell into doubt when the chicken hopped the fence and began pacing the perimeter of our yard with a proprietary air.
　　Eating it was out of the question. As a restaurant critic and an animal lover, I subscribe to a policy of complete hypocrisy. Serve fish or fowl to me, but don’t ask me to watch the killing. Once I meet it, I don’t want to eat it.
　　Nancy and I next theorized that the chicken had escaped from a live-poultry market about four blocks away and was on the run. Our hearts went out to the brave little refugee. We had to save it.
　　Chickens were beginning to sound like the ideal pet. The chicken took to its new surroundings easily. Its main social task was to integrate into the cat society—a group of about five strays we feed.
　　How would the two species deal with each other?
　　One morning I looked out the window and saw four cats lined up at their food bowls, and, right in the middle, eating cat food with gusto, was the chicken. Occasionally it would push a cat aside to get a better position. The cats, for their part, regarded the chicken warily. To the extent that it was a bird, it was prey. But big prey. From time to time they would
　　stalk, press their bodies to the ground, swish their tails and give every sign of going for the kill. Then they would register the chicken’s size and become gripped by second thoughts. A face-saving, halfhearted lunge would follow.
　　The two sides soon achieved parity. Sometimes, I’d look out back and see a cat chasing the chicken. Ten minutes later I’d see the chicken chasing a cat. I like to think they reached the plane of mutual respect. Perhaps affection.
　　Although it was nice to know the chicken could eat anything, cat food didn’t seem right. I called my mother. Mom drove to the local feed store in La Porte, Texas, and picked up a
　　25-pound bag of scratch grains, a blend of milo, corn and oats. She began shipping the grain in installments. The chicken seemed to appreciate the feed.
　　Our care paid off. One morning, Nancy spied an egg on the patio. At the base of the pine tree, where the chicken slept, was a nest containing four more eggs. They were small, somewhere between ecru and beige, but this was it. The blessed event. After I wrote about the chicken in the New York Times, my mail-bag was bursting with letters offering advice on the proper care and feeding of chickens. Disturbed that she did not have a name, fans wrote with suggestions.
　　Vivian had a certain sultry appeal; Henrietta seemed cute. But Henny Penny? The media jumped in. National Public Radio quizzed me about the chicken for one of its weekend programs. “My producer wants to know, could you hold the telephone up to the chicken so we can hear it?” the interviewer asked. Unfortunately, I don’t have a 100-foot cord on my telephone. The
　　Associated Press sent a photographer to capture the chicken’s many moods.
　　(She had two.)
　　Then one morning I looked out my kitchen window, and my heart stopped. No chicken—not in my pine tree or the tree next door. Nor was she pecking and scratching in any of the nearby yards. There were no signs of violence, only a single black feather near the back door.
　　She was definitely missing. But why?
　　Spring was in the air. Could she be looking for love? Or perhaps she was reacting badly to the burdens of celebrity? Or maybe she was simply looking for a place to lay her eggs in peace.

One day in the dead of winter, I looked out my back window and saw a chicken. It was jet-black with a crimson wattle, and it seemed unaware that it was in New York City. In classic barnyard fashion, it was scratching, pecking and clucking.
　　How it came to a small backyard in Astoria, Queens, remains a matter of conjecture. The chicken made its first appearance next door, at the home of a multitude of cabdrivers from Bangladesh. My wife, Nancy, and I figured they had bought the chicken and were fattening it for a feast. That hypothesis fell into doubt when the chicken hopped the fence and began pacing the perimeter of our yard with a proprietary air.
　　Eating it was out of the question. As a restaurant critic and an animal lover, I subscribe to a policy of complete hypocrisy. Serve fish or fowl to me, but don’t ask me to watch the killing. Once I meet it, I don’t want to eat it.
　　Nancy and I next theorized that the chicken had escaped from a live-poultry market about four blocks away and was on the run. Our hearts went out to the brave little refugee. We had to save it.
　　Chickens were beginning to sound like the ideal pet. The chicken took to its new surroundings easily. Its main social task was to integrate into the cat society—a group of about five strays we feed.
　　How would the two species deal with each other?
　　One morning I looked out the window and saw four cats lined up at their food bowls, and, right in the middle, eating cat food with gusto, was the chicken. Occasionally it would push a cat aside to get a better position. The cats, for their part, regarded the chicken warily. To the extent that it was a bird, it was prey. But big prey. From time to time they would
　　stalk, press their bodies to the ground, swish their tails and give every sign of going for the kill. Then they would register the chicken’s size and become gripped by second thoughts. A face-saving, halfhearted lunge would follow.
　　The two sides soon achieved parity. Sometimes, I’d look out back and see a cat chasing the chicken. Ten minutes later I’d see the chicken chasing a cat. I like to think they reached the plane of mutual respect. Perhaps affection.
　　Although it was nice to know the chicken could eat anything, cat food didn’t seem right. I called my mother. Mom drove to the local feed store in La Porte, Texas, and picked up a
　　25-pound bag of scratch grains, a blend of milo, corn and oats. She began shipping the grain in installments. The chicken seemed to appreciate the feed.
　　Our care paid off. One morning, Nancy spied an egg on the patio. At the base of the pine tree, where the chicken slept, was a nest containing four more eggs. They were small, somewhere between ecru and beige, but this was it. The blessed event. After I wrote about the chicken in the New York Times, my mail-bag was bursting with letters offering advice on the proper care and feeding of chickens. Disturbed that she did not have a name, fans wrote with suggestions.
　　Vivian had a certain sultry appeal; Henrietta seemed cute. But Henny Penny? The media jumped in. National Public Radio quizzed me about the chicken for one of its weekend programs. “My producer wants to know, could you hold the telephone up to the chicken so we can hear it?” the interviewer asked. Unfortunately, I don’t have a 100-foot cord on my telephone. The
　　Associated Press sent a photographer to capture the chicken’s many moods.
　　(She had two.)
　　Then one morning I looked out my kitchen window, and my heart stopped. No chicken—not in my pine tree or the tree next door. Nor was she pecking and scratching in any of the nearby yards. There were no signs of violence, only a single black feather near the back door.
　　She was definitely missing. But why?
　　Spring was in the air. Could she be looking for love? Or perhaps she was reacting badly to the burdens of celebrity? Or maybe she was simply looking for a place to lay her eggs in peace.

Once, when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus. Finally, there was only one family between us and the ticket counter.
　　This family made a big impression on me. There were eight children, all probably under the age of 12. You could tell they didn't have a lot of money.
　　Their clothes were not expensive, but they were clean. The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line, two-by-two behind their parents, holding hands. They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, elephants, and other acts they would see that night.
　　One could sense they had never been to the circus before. It promised to be a highlight of their young lives. The father and mother were at the head of the pack, standing proud as could be.
　　The mother was holding her husband's hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You're my knight in shining armor."
　　He was smiling and basking in pride, looking back at her as if to reply, "You got that right."
　　The ticket lady asked the father how many tickets he wanted. He proudly responded, "Please let me buy eight children's tickets and two adult tickets so I can take my family to the circus."
　　The ticket lady quoted the price. The man's wife let go of his hand, her head dropped, and his lip began to quiver. The father leaned a little closer and asked, "How much did you say?"
　　The ticket lady again quoted the price. The man didn't have enough money.
　　How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn‘t have enough money to take them to the circus? Seeing what was going on, my dad put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill and dropped it on the ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!)
　　My father reached down, picked up the bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."
　　The man knew what was going on. He wasn't begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking, embarrassing situation. He looked straight into my dad's eyes, took my dad's hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear running down his cheek, he replied, "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family."
　　My father and I went back to our car and drove home. We didn't go to the circus that night, but we didn't go without

If good friends fell from the sky like raindrops,I'd turn my umbrella upside down and have all that I need.
　　But friends do not come to us that way,instead they shoot up through the ground from a tiny seed of common interest, are cultivated with good times and grow into a beautiful flower to enjoy that continues to bloom as long as it is cared for.
　　These flowers of friendship are gathered into a fragrant bouquet that enhances the world around us and are meant to be enjoyed by ourselves as well as to bring cheer or comfort to others.
　　Like flowers, friendships also go through changes,sometimes they are allowed to die, but if you care for them well and tend them with a gentle touch, they will continue to build roots in new places and bloom for years of enjoyment.
　　When you have found a friend such as this,you will know by the beauty and fragrance that surrounds your life and it will spread like

What am i supposed to do
　　I can't believe it's really you
　　Cause it's been so long
　　Ever since you went away
　　I thought that all my feeling's changed
　　But i guess that i was wrong
　　And all the memories
　　That i left behind
　　In a moment they're all back in my mind
　　So turn around
　　Don't wanna let you see me cry
　　Don't know how
　　We ever could have said goodbye
　　Never thought i'd feel this way
　　Wish i knew the words to say
　　So turn around
　　I didn't know you're still inside
　　Now i found
　　All the reasons why
　　Never should have let you go
　　Wish i didn't have to know
　　Is it just the way you're looking at me
　　That's making me think i need
　　You to still be in my heart
　　Cause i remember that it had to end
　　But now i forget why we said
　　That we have to be apart
　　But we can't go back to what we had
　　But how can i go on
　　When this hurts so bad
　　So turn around
　　Don't wanna let you see me cry
　　Don't know how
　　We ever could have said goodbye
　　Never thought i'd feel this way
　　Wish i knew the words to say
　　So turn around
　　I didn't know you're still inside
　　Now i found
　　All the reasons why
　　Never should have let you go
　　Wish i didn't have to know
　　Cause looking into your eyes
　　I find to my surprise
　　The feelings always been there inside
　　So how did we let it end
　　And how can i just pretend
　　That i don't know you
　　Could have been there all along
　　So turn around
　　Don't wanna let you see me cry
　　Don't know how
　　We ever could have said goodbye
　　Never thought i'd feel this way
　　Wish i knew the words to say
　　So turn around
　　I didn't know you're still inside
　　Now i found
　　All the reasons why
　　Never should have let you go
　　Wish i didn't have to know
　　So turn around
　　Don't wanna let you see me cry
　　Don't know how
　　We ever could have said goodbye
　　Never thought i'd feel this way
　　Wish i knew the words to say
　　So turn around
　　I didn't know you're still inside
　　Now i found
　　All the reasons why
　　Never should have let you go
　　Wish i didn't have to know
　　So turn around
　　Don't wanna let you see me cry
　　Don't know how

Green tea, concentrated friends. Light thick AC smells knowing people everywhere fragrance.
　　A true friend, has nothing to do with the matter, and unrelated to the interests that it is a tacit understanding on the soul, is on a congenial temperament, is Xinyu Xin dependencies. There is no distinction or distinction, personality on the basis of equality is the intersection. Do not have to live a debauched life, we need not phase from cross-dense, two tea, talked about overnight, it is better than too much red tape and impractical. A person's charisma, a non-dust from the heart, such as the Jiaojiao of the month, bearing clouds degree of diminished Qi-hui.
　　Zhao Puchu old liked a poem: "7 cups, loving the taste, a pot was really fun, A thousand empty drink, who explications." Return to Innocence in a prime pot enough to appreciate heaven and earth situation, they dress in enough to make one forget the world cup of tea. 7 bowls of wind, a cup of thick cross. This is the Zen is a light, a close friend.
　　Light the road, the hearts of smoke less. Without too much efforts, a friend changed much, the burden lighter, and walked so easily, our hearts so open-minded, unique, epoch, Xinxin congenial, everything interlinked.
　　Modern city, entertainment, bustling into the shade. When the Cabaret Jiusi neon illuminates the people here to live in a dream the face of death, when the narcotic thrill of online games with people's souls, when Yeh Star Sister overwhelming confusion people's eyes, as well as Who wants to live a real, live simple, live poetry, as well as friends in mind who is willing to treat each other, light intersection?
　　Fun course, 1000 will sail past the end, and prospered eyes, vegetation, mountains and rivers kurong ease, leaving only a Shuitianyise, huubang intersect, detached Dan Ding. Their hearts to the depths of daughter dissipated,光阴Yuan Shi. 2 green tea, huubang from the nearby Overnight talked about, does that mean a great joy to life!
　　Fragrance to know people, light aloof!

How time flies! Looking at the calendar, 2010 is coming in a few days later. Let’s look back the past twelve months, there must be many deep memories, unforgettable things and outstanding achievements you had got. Undoubtedly, the more knowledge you learn, the more achievement you would get. With the development of society, reading online is becoming a fashionable and effective way to learn what you need. OK, under such circumstances, good web sites would be useful for you to learn the knowledge. Top 20 of the article web sites in 2009 are introduced in the following article.
　　No.1 http://www.articlecat.com
　　No.2 http://www.articlerich.com
　　No.3 http://www.articlesbase.com
　　No.4 http://www.mycontentbuilder.com
　　No.5 http://www.sirlook.com
　　No.6 http://www.myfreearticlecentral.com
　　No.7 http://www.jewelry1st.net
　　No.8 http://www.amazines.com
　　No.9 http://www.123articleonline.com
　　No.10 http://www.articlesnatch.com
　　No.11 http://www.series-of-articles.com
　　No.12 http://www.everyonesarticles.com
　　No.13 http://www.itechnoworld.com
　　No.14 http://www.goarticles.com
　　No.15 http://www.pieceabout.com
　　No.16 http://www.articolando.com
　　No.17 http://www.articlewisdom.com
　　No.18 http://www.articlerack.com
　　No.19 http://www.articlecounty.com
　　No.20 http://www.articles4y.com
　　Of course, this is my personal view, these sites I read, the content inside is rich, I would rather like it, good things should be shared, I also hope that you can enjoy them,I have already recommended to my friends they are very like it, maybe you will like it, you can see the following.If you come across any good web site, then remember that you want to share what can recommend to me, Thank you very much.

At dusk, alone move ridge, facing the autumn of the warm sun, the emotional heart slowly into one single thin thread, circled in the autumn years. A lot of things, a lot of people, many of the true inner feelings, a lot of scenery, did not germinate in the spring where, but in the autumn to take root. Heart, such as grassland, as disorganized and under plate fixation.
Falling leaves a heart like a setting sun rise and decline of the state of mind in the autumn of her claws, it seems insane ... ... the silent's heart has little rose, decorated with lack lack's state of mind, but also a latent birth to a little restless. Si Wu may cloud the years, such as the dust floating in the mind, as the autumn wind and the drift of the spiral, in this age of sloshing again and again, such as leaves, such as the setting sun, a step by step toward the desolation and loneliness! Only leaves in the coming spring in order to germinate, setting sun ended in order to be more beautiful tomorrow, while the years do? The lonely days will be gone forever the trajectory of life.
After the matter, after people, how many should wander, worth remembering? Another, but each year after year in spring and autumn, the seasons in the time in reincarnation, life at the Four Seasons exchange recession, creating the myth of R & B, failed to leave R & B legacy. Past smoke, vanished into thin air; past, such as dust, the dust has settled. Can only be left floating in no fixed soon as autumn sigh, a sigh in the past and the past life thing, sigh linger on the continuation of life, and all will eventually dispersed.
Timing birds in exchange for my misty thoughts. Sitting in the autumn dusk, you will feel this fall is not cool, there is no autumn bleak, Xiao Sha, and desolation. Moderate sunshine, fine autumn, the enriched fields, swirling with life, tenderness to soothe the tired, lonely, frustrated and restless frame of mind, went so far as there is a diffuse feeling of calm on the heart. In this sense the parcels, gradually, all the repressed emotions are depressed in the autumn landscape. Their hearts floating slowly down the empty silence of the calm and mature in the desolation. Relaxed rising in the bottom of my heart, and gradually found that calm and mature as autumn wilderness, like bears charm!
Ruyi matter whether or frustrated worth mentioning would be Suifengerqu is irreversible. Love is the eternal theme of life Liuzaishishang! Although there is no bright spring and summer, warm winter's tenacity, but the fall of the mature, full, majestic, tolerance also make the hearts of children resurrection plate junction, so that bright life.
Sea can also change Kuwata, time and how can we not lost? To the left is like a beautiful spring, summer is warm to the left and fall to the left is a mature, winter is tough to leave, while the years should be left behind is eternal spirit and will. Mature season maturity of thinking, rather than lament the fragility of life and loss of life than a rich color and vitality.

Goddess on the mountain top
　　Burning like a silver flame
　　The summit of beauty and love
　　And Venus was her name
　　She’s got it?Yeah, baby, she’s got it
　　I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire
　　Well, I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire
　　Her weapons were her crystal eyes
　　Making every man a man
　　Black as the dark night she was
　　Got what no-one else had
　　Wa!
　　She’s got it?Yeah, baby, she’s got it
　　I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire
　　Well, I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire
　　Goddess on the mountain top
　　Burning like a silver flame
　　The summit of beauty and love
　　And Venus was her name
　　She’s got it?Yeah, baby, she’s got it
　　I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire
　　Well, I’m your Venus, I’m your fire
　　At your desire

All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, “Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale.” Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, “Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.”
Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his “Iliad,” and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, “Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.”
　

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away。
　　And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sign。
　　A Troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words。
　　The world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover。
　　It omes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal。
　　It is the tears of the earth that keep here smiles in bloom.
　　The mighty desert is burning for the love of a bladeof grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away。
　　If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars。
　　The sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing
　　water. Will you carry the burden of their lameness?
　　Her wishful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night。
　　Once we dreamt that we were strangers。
　　We wake up to find that we were dear to each other。
　　Sorrow is hushed into peace in my heart like the evening among
　　the silent trees。
　　Some unseen fingers, like an idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples。
　　What language is thine, O sea?
　　The language of eternal question。
　　What language is thy answer, O sky? 　　The language of eternal silence。
　　Listen, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes

In this materialistic fashion, our minds need a pure sky, warm, quiet, sweet, speckled sunlight.
 Years has left a mark, living merciless sky, the soul can not be every day sunny spring. Sound from the Dark Sky soul may be bitter wind is blowing, unceremoniously knocked the depths of our souls blossom petals just perils. The face of nature's baptism, we must not despair, life is for each of us is a landscape of strange things; the content is an extremely rich and complex book, we need to use the wisdom of mind to recognize it and to gradually adapt to它. The face of life's many trials and hardships that we do not blaming Heaven Jewish people, who can guarantee that a piece of his head was 365 days, "Sunny" in the patent space. When we are struggling in pursuit of life and the sun brilliant, and love and moonlight of the harmony also have a once in lifetime how many scores, streaks of nostalgia, why not put it as a kind of life Enze, it would be of for faint fog, long period of clouds, making it free and easy 1:00 Suifengerqu. Friends, we only treat in life, tolerance, life tirelessly to fight for their own goals, then life will return to our infinite joy, the mind will warm the sky, quiet, sweet, speckled sunlight.