It is still the ambiguity that the French are good at fiddling with. They just have the ability to make the atmosphere rippling with a few eye waves and some nervous little movements.
She needs a psychiatrist who is a stereotypical tax economy. With innocent blue eyes on the slack face, as if the psychiatrist didn't need more decoration. She said that she spoke to herself, once or twice; he listened, it was absolutely necessary, and she still refused to welcome it.
A modern man's predicament, loneliness with nowhere to tell. So, a telling can become a turning point in life. Playing ambiguous until the wild goose has no trace, that kind of teasing is a cat's claws scratching in the heart.
Finally, finally, escape from the gloomy Paris. Watching the camera rise to the ceiling, south, Marseille or Nice, wherever, sun-drenched rooms with tulle curtains. They had the proper distance, the conversation, the conversation, the hopelessly ambiguous, the ironclad intention. A viewer like you has nothing to say.
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