The Proustian flow of consciousness, a song, an impression, a word, becomes the beginning of a montage of jumps, and that fixed rhythm spans the entire film, connecting the disjointed consciousness into a smooth, beautiful curve. Memory belongs to the realm of representation, it is a master of deception, we can remember a lost love because it has become impossible in oblivion, we can remember the suffering of Hiroshima, and because all that remains is photographs and reproductions, Like walking on a night where the sun never rises, all you can do is remember in oblivion, remember the forgotten, remember forgetting itself. When the lover was dying in her arms, she must have experienced the coldness and emptiness of death. His body requires you to respond to this suffering, and you can only passively bear it and die passively. And place names, never intersecting place names that do not signify any other meaning, make this word, which only carries private meaning between two people, a bearer of memory, what could be more appropriate than this? The world is forever, I walk alone. Let me forget from the eyes, and the shadows eat away at you until your face and voice become a song playing in a bar. Devour me, twist me, and only you can recognize the desires and passions that have stirred beneath my impersonal surface.
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