The violence under the fist and the notes between the fingers are languages without borders; the care for the father and the infinite nostalgia for the dead mother are all derived from the deep love flowing in the blood. Two years later, he chose to be the lover and manager of a Vietnamese pianist, but he also clenched the fist of hatred when he encountered the enemy who killed his father. In the end, instead of killing the Russian guy, he returned to the scene where his Vietnamese lover was playing, and his bloodstained hands clapped lightly to the melodious sound of the piano. . .
People, no matter what the situation is, there are always two paths to choose from; hands, of course, are more. The moment "My heart stops beating" can be because of hatred or because of beauty. It's just that sometimes hatred is just like my father. I don't have a choice, so try to be as beautiful as possible, and listen to the sound of my mother and my lover.
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