Dear Diary.
[Chapter One. motorcycle tour. ]
The director is sitting in the car with the camera. In front of the camera is a white helmet on a motorcycle that does not stop moving forward. The rate and trend of relative motion between cars and motorcycles. The camera undulates with the road, uphill, down, and sometimes shaking. Sometimes the bottom half of the motorcycle rider's back is missed out of the picture, the green trees on both sides merge into the middle of the road, and the white helmet crosses the long boulevard, lighting up the narrow alleys and the rich residential areas of Rome. One after another, summer cicadas chirping.
I'd rather believe that the cicadas were obscured by the swaying rendering of the background notes.
He said to himself. Me I cry out for justice. I am a forty-year-old man in his prime.
The most favorite thing for 40-year-olds in their prime is to look at houses and walk around the block. Cars from the early 1990s are parked on the trail under the dense forest plants that shade the sun, and few people are walking. He also likes to go inside and ring the resident's walkie-talkie, pretending to be stepping in for a movie. So came a 1950s Italian comedy-musical about a Trotskyist pastry chef. After all, Italy at that time was rich in this.
He crosses that white bridge at least twice a day because he loves it. On the motorcycle he looked at the various terraces, then fantasized about living there, tidying up the top floor room by himself. His biggest dream has always been to learn to dance well. He stopped to watch the dancing crowd. Man and woman holding hands. Shining interactive woman and woman. A woman intoxicated alone. He didn't know how to dance, so he ran to the stage to share the wheat with the lead singer, moving small steps left and right with the melody of the piano and chords in the gaps. Start the motorcycle journey again, embrace the uninhabited jungle, take off the handlebars with both hands and swing vigorously on the motorcycle, as if you have a band.
[Casal Paroc.
I smelled an odor as I passed the house.
That's the smell of thick sportswear. And the smell of videotape. And the watchdog in the garden. Finished pizza in a carton.
Why did they come here thirty years ago.
I also like to do other things. Just look at the house.
How beautiful is a movie made up of houses. A film consisting of panoramic views of the house.
Garbatella. 1927.
Olympic Village. 1960.
Tufello. 1960.
Nuove Vineyards. year 1987.
Monteverde. 1939. ]
When looking at these houses, he couldn't care about the road in front of him at all.
After watching a terrible horror movie he walked out of the theater and sat on a stool, walked past the fountain, and tried to remember who the hell said good things about the movie. He found the comment and copied it into his diary. The imaginary commenter should have been awake at night because of his uneasy conscience.
through the sea. Not a soft sandy beach. Split clear sea skyline. There are also askew flaming awnings. From a distance, the jagged black reefs on the surf looked like a crowd of people hugging and revelling together. There are also country trails. Such a familiar sense of sight, but you have never run for a moment, completely possessed, and the footsteps on the way home are full of spring flowers in the wild.
So many of him seem to have all become me in an instant.
In the air-conditioned car, I will deliberately choose the sunny side to sit. Pull the gray curtain completely open, and there is a whole happy summer around you. The sidewalks are busy escaping the scorching heat of pedestrians, the frames of newly erected advertising banners on the platforms of long-distance stations. They are all within easy reach of them, only separated by the transparent glass windows that are warmed by the sun. In my mind, I was thinking about the way to be close to those good-looking telephone poles other than photography.
It's as if our life is a post-release follow-up. oneself to oneself to others. others to themselves to others.
The whole point of seeing is to start a search for a far-reaching pursuit. The road ahead is smooth. Rarely travelled to seek the hope that the heart will be prosperous.
Stop at any time at a red light. Have a brief conversation with passersby. Say goodbye to each other and good luck.
[Chapter two. islands. ]
Duras wrote in [L'amour] Shatara who is no longer in love. The kingdom of sand is more like an island. The object of absolute desire.
If possible, I also want to go to a familiar and peaceful island, write a script alone, start some unfinished conversations with strangers, or just relax. Deep amber blue sea. The mountains are covered with vegetation. White clean house. Ninghe people sitting around and chatting happily, they talk on the phone with beautiful children tirelessly. The mother of a child will rejoice at you that she cannot believe that these years will be meaningless. Nor does it believe that her children will never remember. It was a cosy and close period when her children had needed her.
The ship sails on the sea. He was walking in the grass.
The ship turns to open water. So he was accompanied only by the green and gray mountains in his sight.
The sun shone on the muddy sand like a pair of giant wings in the air.
It can describe everything about a place that has never been before. We believe in the end there. we will.
The mayor, who was very emotional and enthusiastic, sang the song of budding to see them off at the port. Like a captain waving his arms high on the shore.
Perhaps any new heaven and new earth arrives, it is more like a deciphered illusion. Have you ever thought that all possibilities are dead and locked in a nutcracker without a keyhole.
[Dear Diary. I only feel happy when I leave one island at sea to visit another. ]
Even if I was assimilated by the island and lived a peaceful writing time, I always had the desire to tell others. He couldn't sleep in the dark with light and no blinds, while his friend on the bed beside him babbled on his nostalgia for the TV, eventually shouting [Children don't get sluggish in front of the TV, they dream with their eyes open, like other The same time], set foot on the deck that was about to be closed, escaped the island, and returned to the earthly life with elevators, telephones, televisions, and hot water.
Shakespeare said that the world is the kitchen. From the well-ordered composition we get a strangely inexplicable stillness.
In [Dog Town], it was gradually assimilating the inhabitants while rebuilding themselves as the hearts of the people decayed. People and the town have the same root and live together, and they are indispensable. But the lonely island symbolizes everyone close to it. People seek refuge into their own hearts. Quietly left after gaining something. No need to take responsibility for building islands. Before arriving, the ecology has been formed, and there is no contamination. Just like our original intention, the return journey is like a voyage to the sea.
Even being able to start over. Even if you continue to lose your life. We have no choice but to be ourselves.
[third chapter. Doctors. ]
Tickling as desire. No amount of drug action can stop it.
If this is a disease that requires our self-control, it may never be cured.
Maintain good habits and a peaceful mind. A glass of water in the morning can quench the loss of the cold night.
Dear Diary. What you can tell me is more important than what I ever let you know.
[Bonus]
Dialogue from the island. Peaceful people and lovely children.
[Hello.
Sarah. I'm Lorenzo Daniel's dad. Do you remember. Please call your father to answer the phone. What is the name of the kitten? Meow~ hehe~ What is the name of a cricket
?
This is how a cricket is called. Haw. Call your dad now.
What is the name of the ewe? The ewe
bleats. The rooster croaks.
Also?
Sara asked you to call your dad on the phone... donkey chirping... you know I don't know everything... chick chirping...
I'm Rosana. Would you mind calling your mom or dad on the phone.
I'm going to call Dad. goodbye.
who is at home. Mom is still dad.
Mom and Dad are there. But I'm going to tell you a fable...]
Children are demons. what.
above.
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