a wonderful play the American peasants had started with Portugal. The moment I saw the movie, I recalled being yelled at by Jia Hongsheng from the century-old lecture hall. Out of misery. It was the May day in the world, there was no suffocating heat, and there were no mosquitoes and uncles staring at my thighs. I deliberately put on my mother’s ankle-length layers on my sneakers, which made me fluttering when I walked. White gauze skirt. I wore headphones and spent an hour in the crowd in front of the Centennial Lecture Hall before I was finally able to sit in a seat not so close to the stage and wait for the lights to dim, and when the stage lights up and
the wind blows out in the middle, I can't control it. Staying on her own footsteps of running away, Shuya, who ignored the fluttering of her long skirt, scurried past Lanqi Camp to Wudaokou before she could stop and let out a breath.
This memory may be suspected of being exaggerated, after all, it is also two The sleepy, ominous spring thing happened years ago, and I've always had a teenage memory of mischief and humour
BUT! My love for the Portuguese doesn't even need to be remembered!
Saramago and Pessoa, like surgeons, put a fishing line in my heart as casually, and as soon as I pulled it, I fell down and surrendered
oh my Portuguese, please be as painful as a gold bar. Live in the dark in the rich man's safe, even if I never get you, I don't want you to become the golden boy recognized by the people in Chow Tai Fook's cupboard!
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