Rain.
urge the dull roots. Slowness is not necessarily bad. Wake up, stretch your body slowly, take a deep breath, and the sound of rain quietly penetrates the open space.
I remembered the intoxicated look of that cat being served by me with narrowed eyes and trembling paws.
Well, the body is a wonderland.
In the area where artists live, there is loneliness. Always waiting, restless in the ebb and flow of time. Can't be understood? But what do you need to be understood? Maybe I don't know how to express it, maybe there is no content to express at all. Popularity, imitation, flood symbol. The birth of meaninglessness, the noise of copying. It's because you haven't found what you're looking for, and in a world forsaken by God, lightning will never even strike you.
The alienated spiritual world is not pure.
Of course, mixing noise in purity is also a means of highlighting purity, but at least it shouldn't drown out purity, right?
Yes, it is purely inaccessible, and even if it arrives, it is difficult to maintain. Just like the cold objective encounters the aggressive subjective, ah, in front of that burning fire, how many people can be turned into stones, glowing with rational brilliance?
Thinking of the scene where Joan and Annie were in bed, when it came to Henry sleeping, Annie missed out, and Joan immediately went crazy. Their love is so different. Joan burns her life to love Henry, Annie is different, she doesn't need to burn, she just ignites others, and then keeps warm. She is adventurous, and the ease of life provided by her husband is the guarantee of all her adventures. She is so superior. Joan has nothing but herself. Henry? What's so good about Henry, this broken old man, he just has some untimely passions. He has never entered the so-called woman he loves at all. Does Anne really love Henry? She just loves that way of getting into literature. They talk about Lawrence in a false way, and Lawrence, poor Lawrence is just foreplay between two narcissists. Well, your size is just right, no lube needed. Annie compares Henry's and her husband's sizes. Funny, with a lubricant like Lawrence, of course nothing else is needed. At the end of the film, Anne gets into her husband's car and leaves Henry. The monologue is quite real. Henry's existence as an object of love at least has some meaning in Anne's transformation into a woman. "I cried that morning, I cried because I loved the street that let me leave Henry, and one day I will come back to him, and I cried because the process of being a woman was so painful, and I am more than ever since today. I cry because my pain is gone, and the pain doesn't exist, and I'm so uncomfortable."
Look, some people exist to give others a reason to suffer. This wide-eyed beauty can't help but spread her legs. You know, love is hard stuff. I love Joan's fictional story, the puppet, the dad, and her flirting with the cruise conductor. This lovely bohemian woman. What she cares about is the truth in her heart, nothing else.
Love is a hard thing.
Neither growth nor destruction is deterministic in the subjective sense.
Moment or eternity? Collection worth collecting, dream or reality, flashing pieces.
When you long for someone by your side, where does this thought come from? What do you long for in him? Is it what you lack? Is it you and he co-owned and need to echo? Can someone else replace it? If it is replaceable, is the object of love readily available? If it is irreplaceable, will the ability to love be lost once the object disappears? Is the lack of life trying to complete it.
At a certain moment of waking up or walking and watching the clouds or the wind whistling past my ears, I often try to imagine where you are and what you are doing. love or something. We may miss out like two tiny specks of dust that flash by in the universe. But I am often grateful for this encounter, at least, I found you.
All the philosophical principles I know cannot explain the balance and order of this universe or any other large system, we only exist in earth time, and this is not recognized. And this not being acknowledged can't stop the hard thing after all, which is, I long for you, all the time. Time is cruel, this is the moment that cannot be together.
I long for you like drowsiness over an uncontrollable stupor.
I long for you, like the breathless silence that envelopes me in a sleepless night.
So the dream scatters like a dandelion.
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