Stephane, Stephanie. It is easy to think of Fillipo and Philippa. The difference is that the trajectory of the latter two is from separation and infinite closeness until they overlap into an individual. They are the two sides of sin and punishment, the convergence of man and God; the former The two are each other's final doomed belonging, although the two continue to converge and cross.
On the piano that decides the encounter, the right melody flows from the fingertips and resonance occurs. Those that were about to happen once became certain, but Stephane himself added noise to the resonance, his dreams were shields, a complement to reality, his desire to love and his fear of being loved were filled with dream factors to achieve rational explanations. . He's always been like a big kid, begging for attention with sometimes annoying awkwardness, covering up his sincerity with dirty words, throwing tantrums over someone else's French, repeatedly approaching and pushing away from the world. So when I fell in love with Stephanie, I thought about trying my best to please, and felt that when I was in love, I had to worry about gains and losses, so that I paralyzed myself into a victim by constructing an illusion, and imposed faults and immorality on others. So the note he asked Zoe to call was sent, but the big picture book-sized heartfelt words for Stephanie never got through.
Those dreams become a buffer for deep inner anxiety, and dreams and reality may be one. For the anxiously attached, Stephane's dreams are reality, with doubts and fears of betrayal superimposed on top of the rising love, the never-ending episodes playing endlessly in the mind, the words that could have been said entangled in the retreat throat. For the things he doesn't care about, he can reshape it arbitrarily, but for the people he cares about, he builds a wall.
It was a blessing to meet Stephanie. Her gentle voice, her imagination that fits together wonderfully from different sources, her tolerance and understanding, make up a perfect lover for that boy who is worrying about gains and losses.
They would dream a lot together, even at the age of seventy, concocting dream recipes together in a corrugated shack, falling into fairy tales in two-person doses. Riding a booger and breaking into the forest on board, together to find the mother sea, in the crisp sound of blue and white cellophane, in the rustling of the white leaves in the wind, and in the singing of the chansons de chats.
Again, I dreamed of losing you.
But I have confirmed that when you leave, it must be a dream.
This is the Chaos fairy tale brought to us by Gondry. There is still a definite presence in disorder and fragmentation. How romantic.
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