In the autumn afternoon, everyone fell asleep, or felt that the question was not worth answering, and no one answered me. The sun shone into the house and spread softly on the ankles. Across a door, someone spoke softly in the corridor, coughing occasionally. The tricycles recycling newspapers meandered in the community, the bells were scattered, and the jingling was close and far away. I don't know where someone is holding a wedding, and the sound of firecrackers is not very clear.
The world is silent. It is the stillness of life.
If you die in such a situation, you will probably have no regrets in this life.
I didn't watch Hayao Miyazaki originally. Too much admiration made me unable to find the north, and I didn't like the sense of direction being too far away from me.
But at this moment, Hayao Miyazaki gave me a warm and itchy slap in the face. His outstretched hand is: Incredibly romantic.
In fact, Hayao Miyazaki's romance is very trivial, a journey chasing a stray cat, a day of farm work in the countryside, a name that appears repeatedly on a library card. But it is always in the crowd that reminds people inadvertently of the cool mist of a sunny Sunday morning. The chirping of cicadas on a hot afternoon during a summer vacation. An annoying ink stain on an enviable new dress.
Many times, every time, countless times. I have been defeated by innocence again and again.
I believe that people watching Hayao Miyazaki must have encountered some small happiness that jumped out of memory because of unexpectedly on the balcony with coffee rocking chairs in the afternoon, or in the shade of the sycamore tree with fine sunlight. There was a wind that smelled of green grass.
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