To be continued! I don't know when it will be continued! At some point in life, a man will feel sorry for a woman left behind. It was a kind of smug mourning and a disgust for his own past, even though he had been quietly dormant for a long time under the curse of life, and his breath had been repressed for years and revealed the smell of corruption. Although he may have only seen this woman once, this is the last time.
The woman's smile in the photo is reminiscent of the first rays of sunshine and lemon jam in the morning. Yet, her first appearance in his life is accompanied by blood-stained sheets and bruises, and with Mara's death posing a rift in the mundane routine, one wonders that beauty is not lost with death. Her presence made him realize that there are places in life where light cannot penetrate. Although examining death and crime is his usual job, these memories gradually surfaced when he retired to write a novel. He was terrified, alone, and didn't know where to start. And his former colleague, the old female prosecutor who still wears a red dress and smiles brightly like a fireplace, reminds him that you should start from the part you remember the most.
In the past, there have been many beginnings, so how can I name them one by one? The contemptuous smile of a fugitive murderer; the tangled hands of a husband who has lost his wife; the woman he loves breaking into his world wearing a little red hood; and his alcoholic, glib-looking Udy Allen sidekick spending the last time at his house. One night, he clapped his hands with her from the train's window and walked away. This pain is aggressively torturing his life. Ask him if he did his best, even for a moment.
Is he really powerless and helpless a lot of the time? Or did he simply surrender to fate out of cowardice? He can only be an outsider, a good old man who has never lacked the hero's zeal. Maybe you left the stage early, just subconsciously curled up like a baby, trying to squeeze out all the harm in the world. But birth always requires a cut to cut the umbilical cord, a moment to open your eyes, and a cry that almost suffocates, doesn't it? She said if you want to write, write well. Together, they moved a typewriter that was in disrepair, and the letter A was always broken. But missing just one letter is not a big problem. There are many words that could be used.
There are not so many people in the world. Everyone is lovely, and no one is irreplaceable. They passed by each other, each with their own ring, each with their own children, each looking for their own lover, and each living their own life. But there are no two identical leaves in the world, and the time spent together is not buried by death. To the infatuated loner, what's the point of the world if the lover isn't there?
While dedicated love brings satisfaction and happiness, it must bury deep pains. Husbands who have lost loved ones can't help but cover their mouths to prevent a sudden surge of grief, screaming like a boiling kettle. With his back to the prosecutor, he leaned down like a piece of paper against the white tiled wall, occasionally reflecting off the ring on his ring finger. As much as he loved everything he cherished, he hated the visitors to this ruin. A world as sweet as a half cube of sugar has been turned into pieces with the death of its beloved wife. The prosecutor's routine concerns and the condolences that accompany him are of no use to him. The only thing he expects is to bring the murderer to justice. But not by in situ rectification. The death penalty is too gentle, even too gentle. To let a man escape the torment of loneliness so peacefully is probably not worthy of the crime he has committed.
People are always trying to survive. For the sake of our loved ones, for the sake of our friends, and for the future, we cannot stop. When love is irreversible, torture yourself. It will not last longer than a kiss on the forehead. But some people's deep love has been weathered into limestone caverns over the years, riddled with holes and hard and rippled, like a pendulum resting on the freezing point of anger.
He said, "I no longer remember every detail of that morning." What tea did I drink? " What kind of jam are you eating? He no longer has the opportunity to renew the treasure trove of memory, and what is even more terrifying is that people can't resist forgetting, and their shadow begins to turn yellow. So he extracted, recognized, reproduced again and again, and remounted the films to make them clear.
He flipped through the old photo albums. The world's spotlight was on her face. Those once beautiful moments have been rewritten. In order to track down the murderer, the smiling faces gathered together were covered with a plastic film marked with a marker number. Time is resurrected in the photo, but the empty scrutiny carries an unquenchable hatred, which is like chewing gum being stepped on by the soles of the feet to lift the sticky filaments, cloudy, dry, hard, and cold, and can't be shaken off. He made a phone call at night, listening to the strange woman pronounce the name he could no longer call in a trivial tone, the knuckles of his hand clenching the microphone sobbing, the nails chapped.
At the train station, he was meticulous and unmoved, waiting for the rabbit with enthusiasm, like waiting for a lover, and calm like an ambush prey. His unfocused eyes searched for the blurry-faced executioner, completely ignoring that the probability of success was so small that he waited for a year. His love will not fade, not be shaken by ordinary trifles. He lives in the cage of time to resist the emptiness of life. three. Wait an hour, too long If love happens to be after that-Wait 10,000 years, not long. If, at last, there is love in return, Emily Dickinson
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