The melancholy of Paris, the gloomy
rain,
the depression of middle age, and the
roaring railroad tracks extend every inch.
Beating the cold heart.
Love is doomed to hurt each other.
Die with scars all over his body.
A man's hard exterior,
like a solemn porcelain, can't
hide his inner fragility.
Hearts can change.
Women are more fickle.
But love cannot tell right from wrong.
Women are happy spirits that
seduce your heart.
Wandering around,
unable to hide.
The heart can't be expressed,
the more you pursue, the farther away,
the closer you get, the slimmer you become.
Love tends to be expressed by violence,
squeezing and possessing until it is lost.
Getting along becomes scary,
getting along becomes a nightmare.
The secular world can't tolerate funny, and the
living space is getting narrower and narrower.
When happiness comes, so
does death.
The last tune played, and
so did the gunshots.
When the dance of life ends,
how many runs become fantasy.
Under the vast sky,
dotted with scattered houses,
buried countless sentimental.
View more about Last Tango in Paris reviews
