wonderful, just like sucking the honey juice dripping from the golden apple tree in the realm of the gods, but it is looming and can only grasp the mist between the clouds.
The pinnacle of aesthetics is the day on the clouds,
when a young man glances at his lover by the window for the last time and walks into a foggy alley or an intellectual woman smiles at a stranger who is obsessed with herself: I will be a nun tomorrow. When the director and the young girl in the seaside shop stare at each other silently for a long time, or when two people who have lost their partner comfort each other silently in an empty room,
the days that are always cloudy at this moment bring me a kind of unprecedented beautiful enjoyment
Maybe strangers and short-lived love are the source of romance, and it may bring the sweetest and most unrealistic fruits of love,
or there may be no love at all, no hate at all, just the quiet passage of time and a persistent nostalgia
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