Ten years of beautiful clothes
The sound urges the horse to speed up, like waving a silver whip. The wind blows the sand, and the knife cuts Pure Brightness. Want to drink lute immediately urge, ancient to fight a few people back. Will pull the carved bow like the full moon, look northwest, shoot the wolf. Have you lost the baptism of the flames of war and the smoke of gunpowder, and then become a tomb with thick powder and...
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