will be the new bridge, and thus run down.
C'est la Paris, this is Paris!
The long tunnel has blue light. long drive.
Here is the beginning.
All I could see was the twinkling lights in the dark.
Then a man and some men.
Working in the dark, it seems like a person with a skirt underneath.
Very filthy picture. Nothing to do with the soul.
This is a bridge under repair.
There is an old tramp under the bridge, lying on the head of the bridge day and night.
Alex and Michelle met soberly for the first time. bridgehead.
Yali's leg straps, Michelle's eye tape.
Not the decency of the middle class, the French are all stern and stoic.
Michelle can't forget his first love.
A cellist who once "played music for her, only for her".
Her wounded eye draws him repeatedly, only him.
Alex stabbed her bound left eye and memory with flames.
"The world is just a flying flame, and I hate it."
His left foot on crutches struggled to chase her turning run.
The cello lingered in a hurry in the tunnel, and
they met in the tunnel at a normal speed.
The first bullet. She shot her love through the cat's eye on the door.
The world is shaking. She sprinted towards Alex, who had been waiting for him at the bridge.
"7 to you, 7 to me, and one for good luck."
Fireworks and bullets erupted over Paris.
They twirled and danced on the bridge until the fireworks dissipated like gold and silver
Fireworks have never been so mesmerizing. Precipitate a wandering carnival with only two people.
Some people say, "Love is in the bedroom, not in the wind."
But "The sky is white, but the clouds are black, then we know we are in love"
"The sky is white, but the clouds are black." "
Michelle falls in love with Alex.
"The city is asleep, but we take a walk."
But where they come from is still different. That place is called a hierarchy.
Alex tries to keep Michelle in this wandering world.
And he was afraid of Michelle's real world, panicked and staggered away.
The world he could never reach.
He tore off the first poster of Michelle in the tunnel, burned a row of posters,
and then he had no way to escape, the burning flames scorched him as much as the world.
Only for fear of losing.
Just as the old tramp thought: she left after all, she should leave.
…
But this is the French, a
seemingly impoverished crowd that still exudes from the bone marrow the smell of the decency of the junior middle class.
The colonel's daughter Michelle still returned to the bridge, and repaired it in the snowy night.
In the once wandering bridgehead. She painted him.
They jumped into the cold but surging Seine and headed for the Atlantic Ocean together.
"It's the beginning and the end..."
Desperate fervor, ardent despair.
The world is only a dim background to Paris.
Paris to the world is a painting by Cezanne Qis. crucial.
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