The one hundred and forty-eight minutes of the movie, I watched and stopped, and now there are 40 minutes and 50 seconds until the end of the film, and I have no courage to watch it any more. The stories describing the warm life of the dying person probably won't touch my tears, and psychics are not new in the films produced by this religious country with deep-rooted beliefs. Yali Sandro, this soulless person, strung a series of trivial tragedies into a thread, stitched stitch by stitch into your heart, and when the wrong stitch was sewed, it would be pulled out and tied again, and firmly hit at the end of the edge. Dead knot, clenched with teeth. And this piece of sadness doesn't even need dramatic effects, it's completely real scene by scene. On the streets of Barcelona, I have seen those hawkers of A goods who were chased by city officials with electric batons and ran for their lives. All black people - not racism, yellow people can't outrun their peers or police cars. There is not a single second in their lives that is stable - selling goods during the day, wishing to grow a head, eyes and ears to watch hundreds of roads and listen to thousands of directions, or simply have super powers to smell the breath of urban management without losing PRADA. the workforce. I went back to the shack at night to see if my wife and daughter had been sent back to Senegal, Mexico, or if they were dying because of pneumonia and AIDS and did not dare to go to the hospital. Whether in Leon, in Madrid, in Barcelona or Andalusia. Where there are small commodities, there are Chinese shop Chinese. Chinese stores always sell cheap and low-quality products, and rewriting a currency symbol for things that cost a few cents can instantly make huge profits more than ten times. Chinese traders are always dressed in rags, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, sits behind the plaque of "all one yuan" three hundred and sixty-five days a year, presses a greasy calculator, guards the money, earns it, and keeps it more money. On any beach in Barcelona, you will see middle-aged Asian women with patch bags and big pink Minnie slippers walking back and forth on the beach, holding a map of Chinese meridians in their hands, and muttering, "Hola, masaje, 5 euro". I watched them walk around like this, walking for more than half an hour, and finally an old Spanish woman lay down beside me. The "Minnie's Shoes" business skillfully took out a small bottle of Johnson & Johnson oil from the patch bag, A box of cooling cream. The words on the bottle have long been worn away, and the cloudy liquid in the bottle is not sure if it can really strengthen the body. Ten minutes later, the old lady put on her pants and left, three "Minnie's shoes" "We gathered quickly and talked about Hokkien, which I didn't understand but was very familiar with. Therefore, the twenty-five Chinese illegal immigrants who were smoked to death by gas in the basement of the dilapidated factory building was no joke. So, the foreman "You have no idea how many Chinese people want to stay! Do you know how much they earn in China? "It's just my heart. I really want to point to Sandro's face and say that this is really an attempt by overseas anti-China forces to subvert the regime with sinister intentions. The truth is strangling me by the neck, and I'm about to suffocate. When you are watching A commercial film or an art film that originally wanted to be abstracted from life, but when watching a documentary, I only feel a chill on my back. Cold and sad, the living conditions of overseas migrant workers on the southeast coast of China are still the performance of foreigners. I have to cry. Sad and sympathetic, the miracles at home are still unfinished, and the death or injury in foreign countries is even more irresistible. "Why are there tears in my eyes, because my motherland is always shameful . ” That day at the beach in Barcelona, I didn’t have the courage to look at them. Even if I started to speak, what would I say? It’s just that the pair of Minnie’s shoes kept lingering in my mind. Christina next to me looked at the naked men coming and going. Nude, exclaiming with enjoyment: "Barca, paradise. What a beautiful day!" I don't think it's fucking beautiful at all.
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