Complete works of composition images about mother and daughter.

Write a long letter to someone who has a great influence on their growth, even if there are too many unknowns at the end, such as falling rapidly at the bottom of a cliff. The relationship is unclear, only hidden in the heart, exposed but escaping.

Holding hands tightly, and then a stingy hand. On the edge of the stream at the bottom of the cliff, they walked in the opposite direction. Formal connection, but no temperature. When I turned around, my back drifted away. Don't want to be a burden, don't want to be forced, and don't want to be speechless. Let go and turn around. He didn't look back. The footsteps of two people were unusually clear in the empty valley. But it is inconsistent.

Cross the river. It was dark, with only a faint dark blue light. Surprisingly calm. This dark and dense green grass is lush and soft, like a baby's skin. I want to get close to it, but I'm afraid of being disturbed. Scattered flowers are dotted among them, reflecting light yellow and elegance in the moonlight. There is no wind. Bend down, lift the long hair behind you to your chest, hang it carefully, and gently immerse it in the water, as if stroking your child, satisfied and aware. Gently brushed up, from the root to the tip of the hair, conveniently buried, hands stained with the life of the river, as well as the desire for long hair.

Get up, lift a long white dress, trudge barefoot, go up and down, or push water. The ankle is exposed and prominent, which is particularly patient and full of secrets. Look calm and deep. The wind blew a purple butterfly, which stopped on the bangs and stood forever. Long hair slipped to the chest and waist, swinging slightly step by step, as if to bloom.

Wading through the water, the air is fresh and humid. Flocks of butterflies are flying, and the valley is full of purple light and spirituality. They flew over my white skirt, sprinkled powder and landed on my skirt. The cliff is towering. But there are leafy nights, and the vines are thick or thin. Try to touch one, like an instant inhalation of memory. It's like grabbing a clue and groping. Observe the thickness, depth and smell the breath. Close your eyes and feel, miss. Grope along the vine.

Go into the deep valley. There is an elegant fragrance, self-esteem, self-love, self-respect, not showing off. This is an open white camellia. The sky is dark and mysterious, but it is direct. Facing a flower bone, camellia blossoms head-on, and the light is cast on the face, just like this flower blooms on the face.

Bend down, camellia is printed in the water, still white. Braid your hair against the current. Back and forth bit by bit. Put it on your right chest. Still walking barefoot, stained with the damp smell of the soil, the skirt swept the dark green leaves and white flowers of camellia. Beautiful images, put in them, seem to come true.