When you can see it, it is after midnight. I usually like to be alone at such a time, with my hands on my legs and watching the movie in the dark. It has almost become a habit to fill bottles of clear water with mineral water bottles with tear off labels. When I drink water, my throat will make a choking sound, which resonates in my ears, which is as low as the low snoring of some kind of animal. They said that when you dive into the water, you feel like you are the only zooplankton in the water. When the eyes fail and the sound is blurred, water pours in from the ear canal, and even the stomach sac is filled with water, and you start to puff out blisters like a fish.
When Tom fell from the zenith of the hotel in a stretched posture, a sense of powerlessness multiplied from the shady wind at dawn. If you can fly in this posture, the scenes will recede, and life will begin to regenerate perfectly from infancy. At any time, there is music falling into it, filling all the blanks and gaps in the image. From the orange light of the light to the pitch black at night to the blue in the morning, the change of color makes the visual effect of the film always linger between warm and cold tones, and the plot of the story starts from flashback, warm and cold.
The dilapidation of the hotel is like Tom's ordinary life, and the suicide of the poor lunatic butler who is skateboarding makes his own dimness finally shine in front of the magnesium body, which is too dazzling. And this slum hotel finally became a one-night million-dollar hotel after Tom's death, which is too ironic. As for the barefoot woman, she cried like a child in front of the camera.
"Wow...after I jumped,it occurred to me,life is perfect.Life is the best.And it is full of magic and beauty,opportunity and television.And surprises,lots of surprises.And then there's stuff that everybody wanted for,but they only really feel when it's gone.All that just kind of hit me.I guess you don't really see it all that clearly when you're,you know,alive." Written while listening. The lines inside.)
"love can never be portrayed the same way as a tree, or the sea, or any other mystery. It's the eyes with which we see. It's the sinner and the saint. It's the light inside the paint."
"Love is not like a tree, not like the sea, not like other mysterious things that can be depicted. She is the eyes we look at, she is the sin in the saint's heart, and she is the light in the deepest part of the darkness... "
Even if there is still love in the end, even if it is clichéd. But this love came too direct, and no matter how tolerated, I still had to sigh, at two o'clock in the morning.
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