When Shen Ran entered the sea, it was actually only himself. With their backs facing away, under the shadow of the trees, I dare not face them. The guitar in the hail of gunfire, the numbness of war, can no longer be encapsulated in words such as simple pain or trauma of the soul.
Everyone is in the war machine, and there is still an ego. Instead of being turned into a black spot by thousands of people, being crushed, being bombed to death, and being treated as another kind of creature to go extinct. The melodious piano, accompanied by a bullet through the crowd, I clearly feel that everyone has their own mind, they are not fully immersed in the war. But just when the boy was shot, the bullets were so neat that everyone was taken away by the act of using a gun.
Bashir, Bashir, Bashir, Bashir has countless bullet holes in his face, Bashir is hung around his neck and Bashir is everywhere, even I see him having sex drive. Who Bashir is is completely irrelevant. What matters is only the male nature of war, and countless numb souls. Fragmented.
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