In the past and now, men and women, in and out of the play, countless times and countless life lines, endless divisions and estrangements, but they are connected with each other, and they outline the world in a mess. I stepped from the real to the fiction, wandered between the fictional fiction and the fictional reality, and finally watched the two old men overcome the boring and unbearable reality with the power of fiction. Maybe it's just a moment of anesthesia. Alcohol, cigarettes, the tears of beautiful women, drunkenness, dreams, instant soul flying. It is fleeting and cannot be missed, always vigilant and unbearable to refuse. There is no spiritual derailment, but a transfer of infatuation in a specific scene. His crush wasn't even his wife, but a lighthearted dream. Or fundamentally, there's no love at all, it's all hallucinations, maybe no more real than orgasms during sex. After waking up, my husband, son, and work are still so boring that one wants to strangle them all. A kind of intertextuality, which is often seen recently, has also formed inside and outside the film. Moviegoers aren't all low-profile Westworld tourists. Everyone is the same cruel, the same cowardice. I like movies, probably just because dreaming is easier. So what, it's just a dream, what can I ask for?
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