It's so touching that when i first entered the mass pits a few years ago, i used these little plants as ancestral supplies, bought the most expensive nutrients, picked out a flower pot two or three laps bigger than a plant, and was afraid that the roots would stretch out, watered them once a week, applied fat once a month, and hoped that they would grow up quickly, with the result that the dead ones would see few。
I had a big pot of pottery and a lot of goat dung to fatten, and then two months later i wore a "dress" with all the leaves on the floor and all the colors on it。
The old meat friend who used to talk to each other then tried to change the pots, and i was convinced that i had changed a thumbbasket that was just about 80 percent larger, and then basically had to drink it once and never fatten it again. After three months, he turned back to his balconian state, and the pink side came back, and the leaves were strangled with water。
I've had them all in my house, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them all, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them, i've had them。
Instead, they were all small basins that had just laid down their roots and scattered in the corner of the balcony, but they were all very long oily and smooth, and the tiger pyramids had several little cubs, and the pomegranate round was so pink and the jade view was so full and so green。
It's not too much meat, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work, it's too much work。
