Midnight in Paris
has to admit that it does seem a little fascinated by it. In the final analysis, the petty bourgeoisie literary complex is at work, and what else could it be? My unrealistic fantasies of living elsewhere, my yearning and fear of walking around, my literary dreams that I knew could not be realized, and my fairytale-like experience of "meeting the dreamer at midnight and looking back is no longer there". . .
Such and such.
Of course, it is normal for you to have any expectations and longings in the first half of your life, and you can be forgiven for envy and jealousy, but isn't it a bit unreasonable to indulge in memories beyond reality and rationality?
One day last winter you wrote:
This obsession with time and the past made his feelings deep and vulnerable.
Um.
Finally, our male protagonist, Gil, is lucky, and strolls through the midnight drizzle of Paris with a confidante who has the same hobby. And that's just a movie, a story that a stinky old man came up with. The reality is always sharper, more straightforward and cruel. Oops, a little too pessimistic. Don't be like this. In the time and space that you are obsessed with, there is someone who wants to go to another time and space. Life is nowhere else.
The real Haikou No. 12 has honey-like sunshine and two seconds of torrential rain accompanied by dark clouds. The clothes are still half wet and not dry, an afternoon that looks boring without studying. Hold on, you can get your first salary in three days. Or settle down and read some books, or indulge yourself occasionally and let the lazy trumpet in Si Tu Vois Ma Mere lead you into a mysterious dream.
it's just that you're not here
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