Fran will give up halfway. You will waste your time. I would die alone, drowning my head in the bar toilet.
How many times have I felt that the beautiful things in life probably never belong to me. Hobbies on a whim are always anticlimactic. Free time is just wasted in doing nothing. A touching love story will always happen to others. But what if there is such a second-hand bookstore for me, even if I am sloppy, headstrong, mean, smoking and drinking, and a complete bastard?
Maybe because dreams are always out of reach, maybe because on the coldest days of winter, I was immersed in the feelings of loneliness and misery, and I also saw the sorrow of the same sickness in the black humor.
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