Anzhe. I confess to the straight Greek road in this line. I pray to it. For life. for some people. They don't want to revisit a good movie. Don't even want to admit it. The things that really make them fall in love. Because the pain in that mirror image is a projection of self-destiny. No one wants to go back to the haze and touch the broken things. But there is no way, grief and suffering must only be comforted in deeper suffering. rather than in more joy. That's why grief is constantly being awakened and needed. The form of beauty, especially a kind of classical beauty, when it goes to the extreme, must be a kind of sadness, a kind of poetry, a kind of powerlessness, a kind of paranoia, not inspiration. Not enthusiasm. I was drawn to this story. Although I don't know. Is this attraction a projection. Anzhe. You use a lot of alienated long shots, sparsely from the eyes of two pairs of children, to awaken the cold emotions. Your power is in restraint. Your sensitivity to human nature and pictures retains an insensitivity to expressive techniques. You condensed and calmly controlled that painful G-spot. Let a story with little to tell, from the quiet record, hold firmly in the eyes of those who have been on the verge of bursting in watching. This is almost the most perfect and impossible humanistic feeling. Instead of choosing a description of beauty, you choose to be in pessimism. Caring for your Greek people. You fight sadness with pessimism. When they unfold, like the truth of this world, they expose the emptiness, unpredictability, and impermanence of life as brutally. When the desires and sins in people's hearts meet a pure virgin, no moral and ideal logic can prevent them from harming them. People always hurt things that are beautiful and shatter at the touch of a hand. It is because everyone is not confident enough to recognize beauty because of their own flaws and lack of philosophy when facing beauty. I haven't had time to experience compassion for life. And so there is every scene of the story. Without exception, the scene where Little Ulla was raped by a truck driver was the most impressive to me. The shock brought by this picture may directly trigger a mentally depressed patient. Desperate to the point where you have to strongly restrain yourself from imagining too deeply. The action for the entire picture is tucked under the hood of the truck. In a reserved long shot. In a moment of irreversible disappearance. The picture paused, revealing a creepy atmosphere. As the camera gets closer. Until Little Ulla's white calf slowly stretched out from the slit of the hood, and a line of blood flowed out between her trembling legs. She lowered her eyes like a strange animal, looking at her blood-stained five-fingered hands, her face still expressionless. Again I couldn't resist exiting fullscreen. pause. For someone who is already rich in empathy, I felt the sting of that tear in my collarbone. Like blunt glass to cut the eyeball. In this thin and humiliated soul, you have no way to protect her longing for the unknown world and the innocence of impermanent life, she is so weak, she calmly accepts the misfortune in the journey, and the lovely little girl Alexander, looking for the non-existent father. At the end of the story, she discovers her love for Oresti. Then she walked away from there. She couldn't stretch her wet wings. She didn't even raise her head. She was just a broken girl who had just been forcibly raped, with wet blood on her socks and skirt. But in her consciousness, it is forever. Branded with feelings and inferiority that do not match with love. dad. Life is so sad. I'm always dreaming, imagining your shoulders. You are as cold as reality. And life is so sad. I set foot on the road with no end in sight. You must not tell me. I'm going this way for a long time. Only one tree was seen until the end. dad. You must not tell me that you are not there. "If you want you can recreate the world just like the fog disappears with a flick of your hand". . . In this thin and humiliated soul, you have no way to protect her longing for the unknown world and the innocence of impermanent life, she is so weak, she calmly accepts the misfortune in the journey, and the lovely little girl Alexander, looking for the non-existent father. At the end of the story, she discovers her love for Oresti. Then she walked away from there. She couldn't stretch her wet wings. She didn't even raise her head. She was just a broken girl who had just been forcibly raped, with wet blood on her socks and skirt. But in her consciousness, it is forever. Branded with feelings and inferiority that do not match with love. dad. Life is so sad. I'm always dreaming, imagining your shoulders. You are as cold as reality. And life is so sad. I set foot on the road with no end in sight. You must not tell me. I'm going this way for a long time. Only one tree was seen until the end. dad. You must not tell me that you are not there. "If you want you can recreate the world just like the fog disappears with a flick of your hand". . . In this thin and humiliated soul, you have no way to protect her longing for the unknown world and the innocence of impermanent life, she is so weak, she calmly accepts the misfortune in the journey, and the lovely little girl Alexander, looking for the non-existent father. At the end of the story, she discovers her love for Oresti. Then she walked away from there. She couldn't stretch her wet wings. She didn't even raise her head. She was just a broken girl who had just been forcibly raped, with wet blood on her socks and skirt. But in her consciousness, it is forever. Branded with feelings and inferiority that do not match with love. dad. Life is so sad. I'm always dreaming, imagining your shoulders. You are as cold as reality. And life is so sad. I set foot on the road with no end in sight. You must not tell me. I'm going this way for a long time. Only one tree was seen until the end. dad. You must not tell me that you are not there. "If you want you can recreate the world just like the fog disappears with a flick of your hand". . . . . . . . .
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