started crying like a fool from breaking the glass The paragraphs floated into my head, and the last paragraph of confession was really a whole paragraph of high-density fuck. This piece is crying and laughing about How fucked up life is. Then there is the shrug and the heroine's iconic raised eyebrow and red lips (the so-called smile). Broken hearts, gods and bodies, swept them together, wrapped them up, and sewed everything together, it's not going to continue, the eye makeup is crying like a river of ink, the only real thing left is this body that is about to be fuckable, you say this world Funny not funny. I tried hard to think of the heroine's name for a long time, but failed. It turns out that she doesn't have a name. I don't understand the meaning of the Fleabag floating on her forehead. I checked the dictionary before I didn't remember it, but now I think it can be explained with a sleeping bag: living in this crumpled, perfunctory, decadent, sloppy, sloppy in the container of the self to the world.
I know mourning is shameful and tiresome—and tires myself even more. However, it is surging and lingering, looking at you silently and silently, day and night. Thanks for being exposed in such a way and story:
life is a play, play at any time, and enter the play. Inner dramas and complaints are used as footnotes to forget in time;
love and inseparable distances, rigid hugs, embarrassing air pressure, and easily dismantled edge lines of collapse;
rushing to escape, in the face of loss but will be absent-minded, trying to He stretched out his hand and pushed further and further;
it seemed that for a moment everything was going to get better, but it didn't; the end of the road was going to be crushed, but it didn't.
Oh yes, the beginning of episode 2 was coincidental and deliberately watched 4 times. Raised eyebrows with relief: Welcome to our neurotic world.
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