Compared with Mr. Streep, my violin teacher back then was much more modest. Every Sunday afternoon, Mr. Mi's small hall, which is not spacious, always sees through a thin layer of golden sunlight, and diffuses the scent of pine that complements the sunlight. He must have pulled it up for his own amusement when I arrived, and the alleys often reverberate with Schumann's Fantasias or Sarasati's Wanderers. Every time I walked through Teacher Mi's small courtyard, said hello to the wife who sold roast duck, and followed the sound into the hall, I always felt a sense of time travel.
Mr. Mi always checks my fat claws first. If they are newly cut nails, they know that I have not practiced the piano; He must have thought it was blasphemous to put such chubby hands on a violin with gaudy nail polish.
But he never got mad at me. The thing he hates the most is being forced by his wife to sell roast duck.
Every Sunday afternoon, I always endure the pain of dislocated shoulders and stiff fingers, and cast my dim eyes through the dark green screen to the sunset like a fried egg in the distance, praying that it will fall soon, and I will go home to eat. Fried eggs...
Now my piano case has not been opened in the big closet for two years, because of this movie, I suddenly have the urge to wipe the dust tonight. I don't know if the dullness from the piano body is comparable to that of the least talented child in the movie.
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