Composition topics for young people and post-90 s (cartoon slogans are also acceptable)

The night is quiet as water, and the rain is falling. The rain floating into the eaves stained the title page of youth. The wind has invaded my dream with my sleepiness, blowing away the word youth, and it appears in the morning light when I wake up in the morning.

Time is too thin, fingers are too wide, and it always slips through my fingers inadvertently, reaching for it and catching only air. Climbing slowly on the fence covered with vines of youth, looking back, are scattered notes, which have been thoughtfully run over by memory and rolled up by the wind. The sky is high and the clouds are light, and only a few white clouds wander in the sky, stuffing the precipitation of youth into the gap of time. Time rolls up everything that is too pure, but it is as plain as boiled water.

The geese that left in autumn crossed the sky, and a bright sadness pierced the air, like the tear of satin, which made people tremble. Youth travels with the geese, overlooking us who don't know what youth is, flying far and far, but we are indifferent. When floating on the wavering tail of youth, I want to catch it but I can't catch it. When I pull it hard, it is also a scattered note, occasionally crossing the lonely sky and floating in the boundless sky.

When the fireworks in full bloom at midnight have burned out their warmth, only a few twinkling stars are left for us to ponder. When the cold wind in deep winter is tearing at your youth, all the past things shake off from the cracks in time, turn into falling petals, float out memories like butterflies, knock off notes, and the fragrance lingers on the staff, but the melody comes to an abrupt end in a second. Wandering in the past time and space, open the book that carries all our youth. It moistens your eyes heavily, and the falling tears fall into the river of time without the ripples of the past.

God gave us a blank sheet of paper, and then let us decorate it beautifully; Always full of energy; Sublimate with sincerity; With true love, every painting becomes eternal, branded into your history, and cannot be repeated. When the white paper is densely covered with the notes we drew, and then the music is composed by the hand of time, the melody of youth is intertwined with sadness and joy, and the notes that cannot be rewritten tremble in the middle.

When memory hits your wasted youth, the sky overflows with sweet and sour rain. Smile, smile and face it. Every second is precious. You will take pains to stop and look back, but time will not wait for you. It has left you and continues to run forward vigorously. When you finish, you will be surrounded by other scenery.

Blink of an eye of youth, a flash of a second, a scattered note.