The more I know love, the more I love him.
In the midsummer of '85, I had 36,288,800 seconds to spend with someone I love so much. I remember every good moment at the beginning. The hot bath after the boat capsized, the trembling in the cinema, the night behind the door, the gallop on the motorcycle, I hope I can spend every second of my life with him, but he follows the speed bubble that has never been touched Leave, it's just that our end was earlier than his. The ending doesn't have an exact starting point, it's tangled in a lot of trivialities. It took me 48 hours to confirm his departure, and I listened to Sailing fulfilling his promise at his grave. I wrote our story and brought him back to me.
The whole plot is almost a bloody drama that we are used to, he likes me, he chases me, we like each other, a third party appears, we argue, and then he has a car accident. It's just that, for the condolences of the deceased lover, I can't find any outlet, and I can't know exactly what kind of emotions he left this world with. Therefore, by writing, I outline the story of our encounter and write down the emotions after losing my lover. Seeing this, I seem to be able to understand the healing function of writing, to beat those unresolved emotions into characters, to write and tell, those beautiful and those pains also seem to have become stories, stories from which I can escape.
The six weeks in the summer of '85, the time we spent together, and maybe the overly good story I put together. Perhaps it is precisely because the director's in-depth analysis of the expectations of both parties in the relationship holds up this story that may be classified as a dog-blood drama.
I'm sailing, I'm flying...all the beauty you brought me in the midsummer of '85.
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