The witch of the beautiful Eva, sister Sa Li, who had been coaxing her for two hundred years, was shattered and hung on the wreckage of the huge crystal chandelier before her death like a white moth in late autumn. "Not being able to love is your curse," said the man she'd haunted her whole life. She didn't speak, but tremblingly took out a heart from her already mottled, broken white china chest, sparkling, pink, like the heart of a lantern ball at a party in the 1970s. He didn't answer, his heart was broken, and it flowed from between his fingers to the ground, as if the last tears on her face that she had done away with flowed from the cracks in her face into a dark nothingness. He touched her already cold face, so the cheekbones fell apart under his touch, and for some unknown reason, it caused a landslide between her brows, and the last bit of luster also collapsed.
At that moment, I felt like Tim Burton's genius was still there, this is a fantasy film, definitely can pass as an artistic film.
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