The bar was bustling with activity, the whole crew was in full swing for the first scene, Stanley Charleson and George Strand were all in the pioneer village, and even Woody Allen's little old man was unexpectedly on the scene, and the bustling atmosphere was addictive.

But it was so hot that I almost couldn't breathe, as if my limbs were firmly tied, and no matter how much I struggled, it was useless, and the drowning-like suffocation made the whole person sink little by little.

He almost ran away, pushed open the back door, and quietly left the crowd, just trying to escape, far away, he didn't even know where he wanted to flee.

The cold and fresh air instantly poured into the lungs, and the world was quiet in an instant, and thoughts swirled between the faint smell of smoke at the fingertips.

In a trance, time seems to have begun to flow back between my fingers, back to the cold winter three years ago, back to the years before the broadcast of "Pacific War" and before the release of "Buried Alive", back to the time when I came to New York alone for my dreams, and back to the time when I hit my head and bled but still proudly refused to admit defeat.

Lowering his eyes, his gaze fell on the cigarette between his fingers, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he couldn't tell whether it was bitter or sarcastic. It had been a long time since he had pulled out a cigarette, and the habit had faded away, but today, he had returned to that moment of déjà vu again.

It's like a fragment of childhood in my memory, everything completely blurs the concept of time, the length of three years disappears in an instant, and everything happened yesterday.

Sometimes, Lan Li always can't help but wonder, is all this reincarnation?

After going around in circles, the character of Levine Davis still came into his hands, as if it was fate.

Inspired by "Don Quixote" and based on Dave Van Lunck, the Coen brothers created the character of Levien Davis and the story of "Drunken Folk", but in fact, it was his experience that created this semi-autobiographical story that belongs to "Blue Rite Hall";

It's a ridiculous idea, but, is it really ridiculous?

The smile on the corner of his mouth couldn't help but rise, and he chuckled. There is no need to think, no precipitation, no even analysis.

Everything is so familiar that you can't tell the difference just by being in it, the boundary between reality and fantasy is completely broken—or rather, it never exists, and the hazy halo of light in the line of sight slowly spreads, as if you can clearly capture the trajectory of the flow of time, and then return to the cold winter of early 2010.

Tonight, now, now, now.

He is working in a pioneer village, waiting for a performance opportunity for a show, which is how he makes ends meet. Not as a waiter, but as a performer, because he was an artist, the song "Cleopatra" was so popular that it became the best way for him to earn a living, and although he earned a very small amount of money every night, he could at least buy a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of beer.

At the same time, he was waiting for his opportunity, a call from the union, an invitation from a show, a call from a dream.

Gently biting the cigarette holder, he was about to light the cigarette, but there was a faint bitterness on the tip of his tongue, and the movement stopped, not knowing whether the taste was the original taste of the cigarette or the concretization of the emotion, and the focus gradually began to blur, revealing a trace of confusion and confusion, but it was only fleeting for a moment, and then he blinked, and then let out a long breath, and put the cigarette to his mouth again, telling himself that he was right.

These insistences are all correct.

On this path of dreams and art, he is a lone wanderer, but even if he runs barefoot in the ice and snow, he has to proudly raise his head and persevere to the end.

Stupidity?

Those who give up insisting on themselves for the sake of life, for money, and for profit, gradually cover up all their edges and personalities, and become the same face in real life, like marionettes, that is the real stupidity. For example, Jim, for example, Troy, for example...... Simple.

If he loses his original innocence, if he loses his faith as an artist, if he loses his original intention as a creator, then he is no longer him, just another product on the assembly line, running hard for life, losing himself, living a meaningless life, doing nothing, vulgar and vulgar, which also means that the music he created will lose its spirituality, the art he creates will no longer be moving, and the imprint he left will completely disappear, completely annihilated in the vast sea of people.

Rather than lingering like this, it is better to hang him and let him say goodbye to this world completely.

Therefore, even if his mouth is full of bitterness, even if it is cold, even if he is covered in bruises, he refuses to change. This is true even if life is burned.

"Bang", there was a loud bang behind him, "Ready, it's your turn." A cry burst through the air, and he shouted impatiently, "Levine, Levine!"

Yes, he's Levine Davis, and he needs to perform on stage.

Looking down at the cigarette on his fingertips, he originally wanted to smoke a cigarette, but he still couldn't light it after all, so he raised his head and answered, "Hmm." Then he put the cigarette back into the cigarette case, walked quickly into the door, and walked through the narrow back kitchen passage, and his vision suddenly opened up, and he saw the stage in the center at a glance.

Standing on the side platform, he thought for a moment, but took off his blazer and hung it on the hanger next to him.

The little wet patch on the back looks a little funny, but it doesn't seem to matter much more than the fluffy sleeves and hem of the suit.

I found my guitar in the corner, held it in one hand, rubbed my hair casually with the other hand, shook off all the moisture I had just touched outside the door, and then went straight to the stage, sat down on the wooden chair in the center, held the guitar in my arms, gently pressed the strings, and sketched a few times with my fingertips to confirm that the tightness of the strings was in line with my habits.

The dull sound of guitar strings ringing irregularly, running through the buzz of the bar, is marketable and popular, outlining a touch of ordinary fireworks, not the kind of elegant art, but street art that accompanies you at all times, and you only need a guitar and a voice to sing to your heart's content.

The bars were still filled with the sounds of each other, and no one seemed to notice the change on the stage.

The lights of the whole bar were dim and hazy, leaving only a milky yellow beam of light sprinkled down, shrouding the wooden chair, and the light dust in the air was flying up and down, fluttering around the shoulders, outlining the outline of the body, and inexplicably you could smell a trace of vicissitudes and downfall wandering, which seemed to be a shirt, and seemed to be an aura.

The messy and uninhibited golden brown curls still carried cold moisture, curling in the light, sparse light and shadow passed between the hair, polishing the facial features and the contours of the face little by little, and the thick and slender eyelashes cast a shadow to cover the look under the eyes, but could not hide the chic and wanton that slowly flowed between the eyebrows.

The neatly trimmed stubble covers most of the cheeks, but it sets off the softness of the lips more and more, and the gentle pursing of the lip flap reveals a little inner apprehension and restraint, but it is fleeting, and the eyes fall on the strings intently, as if they are looking at their beloved lover/person, and the thick tenderness and depth make the light and shadow become soft.

The world was so noisy and chaotic, but suddenly, an indescribable silence was slowly spreading. Time seems to have stopped all of a sudden.

Anne Silriman gently tugged at Paul Walker's sleeve and said in a low voice, "Paul, is that a blue gift?"

Worried that her voice would disturb the work of the crew, Anne's soft-spoken words made Paul have to hold close to his ears in order to catch a hint of breath, and then he also quietly replied, "Yes, that's Lan Li." Why can't you recognize it?" the corners of Paul's mouth couldn't help but rise, "He grew a beard for the purpose of making this film. ”

Anne shook her head slightly, "It's not because of the beard. ”

Then Anne fell silent, walked through the bustling crowd, and quietly looked at the figure on the stage, and was silent for a long time.

Paul, who had been waiting patiently, almost thought that Anne had nothing to do and was about to sit up straight, when the childish voice came to his ears again, "He's a blue li, but he doesn't look like a blue li." ”

"Isn't it like that?" Paul couldn't help but look up again.

Anne shook her head firmly, and the blue salute of the Grammy Awards ceremony on the stage of the Grammys once again came to mind, singing the blue salute of "The Beast" without a cappella, and there was a faint sadness and bitterness between her eyebrows, but she still straightened her back proudly, standing in the center of the world, but with a lingering loneliness and loneliness.

Anne was still too young to speak, and she couldn't say why, but inexplicably, her eyes reddened slightly, and she shook her head again, muttering, "Yes, no." She didn't know what she was talking about, and she couldn't express it, so she fell silent and sat quietly in place, staring at Lan Li intently.

“…… I know. Paul whispered, he could grasp Anne's thoughts. This is the Blue Gift, and every performance can always bring surprises.

At this moment, he hadn't even started to perform, just sitting on a chair, carefully adjusting the strings, but the slowly flowing emotions and temperament had already been sketched out, as if everything was the same, but everything had changed.

"He's Lanli, but he's Levien now. Paul explained gently.