影院的灯光亮起时，我攥着爱人的手，指尖仍在微微发颤。《南京照相馆》的片尾字幕在黑暗中滚动，像一行行淌血的碑文，将1937年那个冬天的南京，镌刻进每一个观众的骨髓里。走出影院，初秋的风带着凉意掠过脸颊，望着街上车水马龙、霓虹闪烁，突然读懂了老金最后按下快门时，那声沉重的叹息里藏着的千言万语——有些镜头，是为了让后来者永远不必再看见那样的人间。
影片中最让我心脏骤停的，是日军拍摄"中日亲善"宣传片的那一幕。布景板上画着虚假的祥和，被强征来的百姓强颜欢笑，镜头扫过之处，是刺刀威逼下的顺从。就在这刻意营造的"太平"里，一声婴儿的啼哭像利剑般划破伪装。那哭声那样清亮，带着生命最初的纯粹，却刺痛了侵略者虚伪的眼睛。没有犹豫，没有片刻的迟疑，一个日军士兵粗暴地夺过婴儿，在母亲撕心裂肺的哭喊中，将那个尚未断奶的生命狠狠摔在地上。啼哭戛然而止的瞬间，片场的死寂比任何嘶吼都更令人窒息。
那一刻，影院里能清晰听见邻座压抑的抽泣。我想起文天祥"山河破碎风飘絮，身世浮沉雨打萍"的诗句，原来真正的破碎从不是轰然倒塌的城墙，而是一个生命在强权面前，轻如鸿毛的消亡。那个婴儿甚至来不及看清这个世界的模样，就成了侵略者粉饰太平的牺牲品。这哪里是"亲善"？分明是"是可忍，孰不可忍"的暴虐，是"朱门酒肉臭，路有冻死骨"的荒诞在近代的重演。日军试图用镜头伪造历史，却在一个婴儿的哭声里，暴露了豺狼的本相。
而老金，那个在南京城里穿梭的摄影师，却用同一台相机，做着与侵略者截然不同的事。他的镜头里没有虚假的笑靥，只有断壁残垣上凝固的血痕，只有难民营里绝望的眼神，只有夜色中偷偷运送伤员的担架。最动人的是影片结尾，老金掩护着一群难民穿过日军封锁线，身后是火光冲天的城郭，身前是未知的生路。他突然停下脚步，跪在泥泞里，举起相机对准了身后的炼狱。镜头缓缓移动，将燃烧的街巷、倒塌的牌坊、逃难者的背影一一收纳。快门声在枪炮声中显得格外清晰，像一记记重锤，敲在历史的鼓面上。
看到这里，我下意识摸了摸背包里的相机。那是一台用了三年的旧机器，平日里不过用来记录旅行风景、家人笑脸，此刻却突然变得沉甸甸的。老金让我明白，相机从来不止是捕捉光影的工具，它可以是刀，剖开谎言的皮囊；可以是笔，书写被掩盖的真相；更可以是盾，为沉默者呐喊，为消逝者立碑。正如顾炎武所言"天下兴亡，匹夫有责"，原来每个普通人的手里，都可能握着守护历史的武器。老金的镜头里，藏着的是"苟利国家生死以，岂因祸福避趋之"的担当，是即便身陷囹圄，也要为民族留下记忆的决绝。
影片中那些对比强烈的画面，始终在我脑海中交织：日军镜头下油光锃亮的军靴，踩在老金镜头里百姓褴褛的衣衫上；侵略者虚伪的笑容，映在难童惊恐的眼眸中；宣传片里刻意摆放的鲜花，掩不住废墟下蔓延的血污。这让我想起杜甫笔下"朱门酒肉臭，路有冻死骨"的悲凉，原来无论时代如何变迁，强权与弱者的对峙，真相与谎言的交锋，始终在历史的舞台上上演。而老金们的可贵之处，就在于他们敢于用镜头撕开那层温情脉脉的面纱，让后人看见"醉里挑灯看剑，梦回吹角连营"的惨烈，看见"遗民泪尽胡尘里，南望王师又一年"的期盼。
走出影院时，爱人指着远处的高楼说："你看，现在的南京多好。"我突然想起影片里那个细节：老金在暗房里冲洗照片，红色的显影液在相纸上晕开，像极了城墙渗下的血。他小心翼翼地将照片贴在墙上，一张又一张，最终贴满了整面墙，那是一个用光影重建的南京城。原来他在用自己的方式，守护着这座城市的灵魂。正如陆游所言"王师北定中原日，家祭无忘告乃翁"，老金的镜头里，藏着的是对未来的信念——他相信总有一天，阳光会重新照亮这座城市，那些被掩盖的真相会重见天日，那些逝去的生命会被永远铭记。
如今，我们早已不必像老金那样，在枪口下偷偷记录真相。但这并不意味着我们可以放下手中的"相机"。这个时代的"相机"，可以是一支笔，一篇文章，一张照片，甚至是一次有理有据的发声。它提醒我们，"忘记历史就意味着背叛"，提醒我们"位卑未敢忘忧国"。当我用镜头记录下孩子在公园里奔跑的笑脸，记录下城市日新月异的变化，记录下国旗升起时人们眼中的泪光，我知道，这些画面都是对老金们最好的告慰——他们用生命守护的未来，我们正在好好活着。
回家的路上，月光洒在车窗上，像一层薄薄的银霜。我想起影片结尾，老金在城墙上留下的那台相机，镜头对着黎明的方向。或许他早已知道，自己未必能看到胜利的那一天，但他相信，总有后来者会拾起他的镜头，继续记录下去。这让我想起艾青的诗句："为什么我的眼里常含泪水？因为我对这土地爱得深沉......"这份深沉的爱，藏在老金按下快门的指缝里，藏在每个铭记历史的中国人的血脉里，藏在我们为这个国家变得更好而付出的每一份努力里。
《南京照相馆》最终告诉我们的，或许不是仇恨，而是责任。是记住"商女不知亡国恨，隔江犹唱后庭花"的警示，是践行"先天下之忧而忧，后天下之乐而乐"的担当。当我们用自己的方式守护着这个时代的真相与美好，就是对那些在黑暗中守望光明的先辈，最好的回应。因为我们手中的"相机"，早已不再只是记录光影的工具，而是承载着"一寸山河一寸血，十万青年十万军"的山河志，是书写着"愿得此身长报国，何须生入玉门关"的赤子心。
When the lights in the cinema came on, I clutched my spouse's hand, my fingertips still trembling slightly. The end credits of Nanjing Photo Studio rolled in the darkness, like lines of bleeding inscriptions, engraving Nanjing's fateful winter of 1937 into every viewer's bones. Stepping out of the theater, the early autumn wind brushed my cheeks with a coolness. Gazing at the bustling traffic and twinkling neon lights on the street, I suddenly understood the thousand words hidden in the heavy sigh when Old Jin pressed the shutter for the last time—some scenes exist so that future generations will never have to witness such a hell on earth.
The most heart-stopping moment in the film was the scene where the Japanese army shot a "Sino-Japanese Amity" propaganda film. A false peace was painted on the backdrop; the conscripted civilians forced smiles, and wherever the camera panned, there was compliance under the threat of bayonets. In this deliberately fabricated "peace," a baby's cry cut through the pretense like a sharp sword. That cry, so clear and pure with the innocence of new life, stung the invaders' hypocritical eyes. Without hesitation, without a moment's pause, a Japanese soldier roughly snatched the baby and, amid the mother's heart-wrenching wails, slammed the unweaned life to the ground. The instant the cry fell silent, the deathly hush on set was more suffocating than any scream.
At that moment, the suppressed sobs of the neighbor in the theater were clearly audible. I recalled Wen Tianxiang's verse: "The broken mountains and rivers drift like catkins; the floating life sways like duckweed in the rain." Truly, the worst destruction is never the轰然 collapsing city walls, but the trivial extinction of a life in the face of brute force. That baby never even got to see the world clearly, yet became a sacrifice for the invaders' whitewashing of peace. This was never "amity"—it was the brutality of "if this can be tolerated, what cannot?"; it was the absurd repetition of "In vermilion mansions, meat and wine rot, while on the road, frozen bones lie" in modern times. The Japanese army tried to forge history with their cameras, but a baby's cry exposed their wolfish nature.
Old Jin, the photographer wandering through Nanjing, used the same camera for something entirely different from the invaders. His lens captured no fake smiles, only凝固的 bloodstains on broken walls, desperate eyes in refugee camps, and stretchers secretly carrying the wounded through the night. The most touching part was the film's ending: as Old Jin escorted a group of refugees through the Japanese blockade, with a flaming city behind and an uncertain path ahead, he suddenly stopped, knelt in the mud, and raised his camera at the inferno behind him. The lens slowly panned, taking in the burning streets, collapsed archways, and the fleeing figures. The shutter clicks, distinct amid the gunfire, sounded like heavy hammers striking the drum of history.
Watching this, I subconsciously touched the camera in my backpack. It was an old model I'd used for three years, usually just for capturing travel scenery or family smiles, but at that moment, it suddenly felt weighty. Old Jin made me realize that a camera is never just a tool for capturing light and shadow—it can be a blade, slicing through the skin of lies; a pen, writing the buried truth; and even a shield, shouting for the silent and erecting monuments for the vanished. As Gu Yanwu once said, "Every common man has a responsibility for the rise and fall of the nation." It turns out that every ordinary person might hold a weapon to defend history in their hands. Old Jin's lens held the resolve of "For the country's sake, I'd risk life and death, regardless of fortune or misfortune"—the determination to preserve the nation's memory even in captivity.
The contrasting scenes in the film lingered in my mind: the polished military boots in the Japanese lens trampling the tattered clothes of civilians in Old Jin's photos; the invaders' hypocritical grins reflected in the terror-stricken eyes of refugee children; the deliberately placed flowers in the propaganda film masking the spreading bloodstains under the ruins. It reminded me of Du Fu's poignant lines: "In vermilion mansions, meat and wine rot, while on the road, frozen bones lie." Through the ages, the confrontation between power and weakness, the clash of truth and lies, have always played out on history's stage. What made Old Jin noble was his courage to tear off the veil of false warmth with his lens, letting future generations see the horror of "Drunk, I light a lamp to gaze at my sword; in dreams, I hear the bugles blowing in the camp," and the longing of "The displaced weep till their tears run dry under foreign dust, year after year gazing south for the royal army."
As we left the theater, my spouse pointed to the distant tall buildings and said, "Look how beautiful Nanjing is now." I suddenly remembered a detail in the film: Old Jin developing photos in his darkroom, the red developer spreading on the paper like blood seeping from city walls. He carefully stuck the photos on the wall, one by one, until the entire wall was covered—a Nanjing reconstructed through light and shadow. He was guarding the city's soul in his own way. Just as Lu You wrote, "When the royal army recovers the central plains, at family sacrifices, do not forget to tell me." Old Jin's lens held faith in the future—he believed that one day, sunlight would reilluminate the city, the buried truth would see the light, and the lost lives would be remembered forever.
Today, we no longer need to record the truth secretly under gunpoint like Old Jin. But that doesn't mean we can put down our "cameras." The "cameras" of this era can be a pen, an article, a photo, or even a rational voice. They remind us that "to forget history is to betray it," and that "even in humble positions, one must not forget to worry about the nation." When I capture children laughing as they run in the park, the city's ever-changing skyline, or the tears in people's eyes when the national flag rises, I know these images are the best comfort to Old Jin and his kind—we are living well in the future they fought to protect.
On the way home, moonlight spilled over the car window like a thin layer of silver frost. I thought of the final scene: the camera Old Jin left on the city wall, its lens pointing toward dawn. Perhaps he knew he might not live to see victory, but he trusted that someone would pick up his lens and continue recording. It brought to mind Ai Qing's lines: "Why do my eyes always brim with tears? Because I love this land deeply..." This deep love lies in the gaps between Old Jin's fingers as he pressed the shutter, in the blood of every Chinese who remembers history, and in every effort we make to better our country.
What Nanjing Photo Studio ultimately tells us is not hatred, but responsibility. It is remembering the warning of "The songstresses know not the shame of a fallen nation, still singing 'The Backyard Flowers' across the river," and fulfilling the duty of "First worry about the world's troubles, then rejoice in its joys." When we safeguard the truth and beauty of our time in our own way, we best respond to those who watched for light in the darkness. For the "cameras" in our hands are no longer just tools to capture light—they carry the vow of "Every inch of land stained with blood, every youth ready to fight," and the loyal heart that cries, "I'd give my life to serve the country; no need to return home even in glory."
Tonight, I pointed my lens at the starry sky outside the window. The bright stars were like Old Jin's unextinguished eyes. I pressed the shutter, capturing this peaceful night, and sending a belated message to those souls forever trapped in 1937: This prosperous age is as you wished.
影片中最让我心脏骤停的，是日军拍摄"中日亲善"宣传片的那一幕。布景板上画着虚假的祥和，被强征来的百姓强颜欢笑，镜头扫过之处，是刺刀威逼下的顺从。就在这刻意营造的"太平"里，一声婴儿的啼哭像利剑般划破伪装。那哭声那样清亮，带着生命最初的纯粹，却刺痛了侵略者虚伪的眼睛。没有犹豫，没有片刻的迟疑，一个日军士兵粗暴地夺过婴儿，在母亲撕心裂肺的哭喊中，将那个尚未断奶的生命狠狠摔在地上。啼哭戛然而止的瞬间，片场的死寂比任何嘶吼都更令人窒息。
那一刻，影院里能清晰听见邻座压抑的抽泣。我想起文天祥"山河破碎风飘絮，身世浮沉雨打萍"的诗句，原来真正的破碎从不是轰然倒塌的城墙，而是一个生命在强权面前，轻如鸿毛的消亡。那个婴儿甚至来不及看清这个世界的模样，就成了侵略者粉饰太平的牺牲品。这哪里是"亲善"？分明是"是可忍，孰不可忍"的暴虐，是"朱门酒肉臭，路有冻死骨"的荒诞在近代的重演。日军试图用镜头伪造历史，却在一个婴儿的哭声里，暴露了豺狼的本相。
而老金，那个在南京城里穿梭的摄影师，却用同一台相机，做着与侵略者截然不同的事。他的镜头里没有虚假的笑靥，只有断壁残垣上凝固的血痕，只有难民营里绝望的眼神，只有夜色中偷偷运送伤员的担架。最动人的是影片结尾，老金掩护着一群难民穿过日军封锁线，身后是火光冲天的城郭，身前是未知的生路。他突然停下脚步，跪在泥泞里，举起相机对准了身后的炼狱。镜头缓缓移动，将燃烧的街巷、倒塌的牌坊、逃难者的背影一一收纳。快门声在枪炮声中显得格外清晰，像一记记重锤，敲在历史的鼓面上。
看到这里，我下意识摸了摸背包里的相机。那是一台用了三年的旧机器，平日里不过用来记录旅行风景、家人笑脸，此刻却突然变得沉甸甸的。老金让我明白，相机从来不止是捕捉光影的工具，它可以是刀，剖开谎言的皮囊；可以是笔，书写被掩盖的真相；更可以是盾，为沉默者呐喊，为消逝者立碑。正如顾炎武所言"天下兴亡，匹夫有责"，原来每个普通人的手里，都可能握着守护历史的武器。老金的镜头里，藏着的是"苟利国家生死以，岂因祸福避趋之"的担当，是即便身陷囹圄，也要为民族留下记忆的决绝。
影片中那些对比强烈的画面，始终在我脑海中交织：日军镜头下油光锃亮的军靴，踩在老金镜头里百姓褴褛的衣衫上；侵略者虚伪的笑容，映在难童惊恐的眼眸中；宣传片里刻意摆放的鲜花，掩不住废墟下蔓延的血污。这让我想起杜甫笔下"朱门酒肉臭，路有冻死骨"的悲凉，原来无论时代如何变迁，强权与弱者的对峙，真相与谎言的交锋，始终在历史的舞台上上演。而老金们的可贵之处，就在于他们敢于用镜头撕开那层温情脉脉的面纱，让后人看见"醉里挑灯看剑，梦回吹角连营"的惨烈，看见"遗民泪尽胡尘里，南望王师又一年"的期盼。
走出影院时，爱人指着远处的高楼说："你看，现在的南京多好。"我突然想起影片里那个细节：老金在暗房里冲洗照片，红色的显影液在相纸上晕开，像极了城墙渗下的血。他小心翼翼地将照片贴在墙上，一张又一张，最终贴满了整面墙，那是一个用光影重建的南京城。原来他在用自己的方式，守护着这座城市的灵魂。正如陆游所言"王师北定中原日，家祭无忘告乃翁"，老金的镜头里，藏着的是对未来的信念——他相信总有一天，阳光会重新照亮这座城市，那些被掩盖的真相会重见天日，那些逝去的生命会被永远铭记。
如今，我们早已不必像老金那样，在枪口下偷偷记录真相。但这并不意味着我们可以放下手中的"相机"。这个时代的"相机"，可以是一支笔，一篇文章，一张照片，甚至是一次有理有据的发声。它提醒我们，"忘记历史就意味着背叛"，提醒我们"位卑未敢忘忧国"。当我用镜头记录下孩子在公园里奔跑的笑脸，记录下城市日新月异的变化，记录下国旗升起时人们眼中的泪光，我知道，这些画面都是对老金们最好的告慰——他们用生命守护的未来，我们正在好好活着。
回家的路上，月光洒在车窗上，像一层薄薄的银霜。我想起影片结尾，老金在城墙上留下的那台相机，镜头对着黎明的方向。或许他早已知道，自己未必能看到胜利的那一天，但他相信，总有后来者会拾起他的镜头，继续记录下去。这让我想起艾青的诗句："为什么我的眼里常含泪水？因为我对这土地爱得深沉......"这份深沉的爱，藏在老金按下快门的指缝里，藏在每个铭记历史的中国人的血脉里，藏在我们为这个国家变得更好而付出的每一份努力里。
《南京照相馆》最终告诉我们的，或许不是仇恨，而是责任。是记住"商女不知亡国恨，隔江犹唱后庭花"的警示，是践行"先天下之忧而忧，后天下之乐而乐"的担当。当我们用自己的方式守护着这个时代的真相与美好，就是对那些在黑暗中守望光明的先辈，最好的回应。因为我们手中的"相机"，早已不再只是记录光影的工具，而是承载着"一寸山河一寸血，十万青年十万军"的山河志，是书写着"愿得此身长报国，何须生入玉门关"的赤子心。
今夜，我将镜头对准窗外的星空。星光璀璨，像极了老金们未曾熄灭的眼睛。我按下快门，为这个和平的夜晚留影，也为那些永远停留在1937年的灵魂，送上一句迟到的告慰：这盛世，如你所愿。
Reflections on Watching Nanjing Photo Studio
When the lights in the cinema came on, I clutched my spouse's hand, my fingertips still trembling slightly. The end credits of Nanjing Photo Studio rolled in the darkness, like lines of bleeding inscriptions, engraving Nanjing's fateful winter of 1937 into every viewer's bones. Stepping out of the theater, the early autumn wind brushed my cheeks with a coolness. Gazing at the bustling traffic and twinkling neon lights on the street, I suddenly understood the thousand words hidden in the heavy sigh when Old Jin pressed the shutter for the last time—some scenes exist so that future generations will never have to witness such a hell on earth.
The most heart-stopping moment in the film was the scene where the Japanese army shot a "Sino-Japanese Amity" propaganda film. A false peace was painted on the backdrop; the conscripted civilians forced smiles, and wherever the camera panned, there was compliance under the threat of bayonets. In this deliberately fabricated "peace," a baby's cry cut through the pretense like a sharp sword. That cry, so clear and pure with the innocence of new life, stung the invaders' hypocritical eyes. Without hesitation, without a moment's pause, a Japanese soldier roughly snatched the baby and, amid the mother's heart-wrenching wails, slammed the unweaned life to the ground. The instant the cry fell silent, the deathly hush on set was more suffocating than any scream.
At that moment, the suppressed sobs of the neighbor in the theater were clearly audible. I recalled Wen Tianxiang's verse: "The broken mountains and rivers drift like catkins; the floating life sways like duckweed in the rain." Truly, the worst destruction is never the轰然 collapsing city walls, but the trivial extinction of a life in the face of brute force. That baby never even got to see the world clearly, yet became a sacrifice for the invaders' whitewashing of peace. This was never "amity"—it was the brutality of "if this can be tolerated, what cannot?"; it was the absurd repetition of "In vermilion mansions, meat and wine rot, while on the road, frozen bones lie" in modern times. The Japanese army tried to forge history with their cameras, but a baby's cry exposed their wolfish nature.
Old Jin, the photographer wandering through Nanjing, used the same camera for something entirely different from the invaders. His lens captured no fake smiles, only凝固的 bloodstains on broken walls, desperate eyes in refugee camps, and stretchers secretly carrying the wounded through the night. The most touching part was the film's ending: as Old Jin escorted a group of refugees through the Japanese blockade, with a flaming city behind and an uncertain path ahead, he suddenly stopped, knelt in the mud, and raised his camera at the inferno behind him. The lens slowly panned, taking in the burning streets, collapsed archways, and the fleeing figures. The shutter clicks, distinct amid the gunfire, sounded like heavy hammers striking the drum of history.
Watching this, I subconsciously touched the camera in my backpack. It was an old model I'd used for three years, usually just for capturing travel scenery or family smiles, but at that moment, it suddenly felt weighty. Old Jin made me realize that a camera is never just a tool for capturing light and shadow—it can be a blade, slicing through the skin of lies; a pen, writing the buried truth; and even a shield, shouting for the silent and erecting monuments for the vanished. As Gu Yanwu once said, "Every common man has a responsibility for the rise and fall of the nation." It turns out that every ordinary person might hold a weapon to defend history in their hands. Old Jin's lens held the resolve of "For the country's sake, I'd risk life and death, regardless of fortune or misfortune"—the determination to preserve the nation's memory even in captivity.
The contrasting scenes in the film lingered in my mind: the polished military boots in the Japanese lens trampling the tattered clothes of civilians in Old Jin's photos; the invaders' hypocritical grins reflected in the terror-stricken eyes of refugee children; the deliberately placed flowers in the propaganda film masking the spreading bloodstains under the ruins. It reminded me of Du Fu's poignant lines: "In vermilion mansions, meat and wine rot, while on the road, frozen bones lie." Through the ages, the confrontation between power and weakness, the clash of truth and lies, have always played out on history's stage. What made Old Jin noble was his courage to tear off the veil of false warmth with his lens, letting future generations see the horror of "Drunk, I light a lamp to gaze at my sword; in dreams, I hear the bugles blowing in the camp," and the longing of "The displaced weep till their tears run dry under foreign dust, year after year gazing south for the royal army."
As we left the theater, my spouse pointed to the distant tall buildings and said, "Look how beautiful Nanjing is now." I suddenly remembered a detail in the film: Old Jin developing photos in his darkroom, the red developer spreading on the paper like blood seeping from city walls. He carefully stuck the photos on the wall, one by one, until the entire wall was covered—a Nanjing reconstructed through light and shadow. He was guarding the city's soul in his own way. Just as Lu You wrote, "When the royal army recovers the central plains, at family sacrifices, do not forget to tell me." Old Jin's lens held faith in the future—he believed that one day, sunlight would reilluminate the city, the buried truth would see the light, and the lost lives would be remembered forever.
Today, we no longer need to record the truth secretly under gunpoint like Old Jin. But that doesn't mean we can put down our "cameras." The "cameras" of this era can be a pen, an article, a photo, or even a rational voice. They remind us that "to forget history is to betray it," and that "even in humble positions, one must not forget to worry about the nation." When I capture children laughing as they run in the park, the city's ever-changing skyline, or the tears in people's eyes when the national flag rises, I know these images are the best comfort to Old Jin and his kind—we are living well in the future they fought to protect.
On the way home, moonlight spilled over the car window like a thin layer of silver frost. I thought of the final scene: the camera Old Jin left on the city wall, its lens pointing toward dawn. Perhaps he knew he might not live to see victory, but he trusted that someone would pick up his lens and continue recording. It brought to mind Ai Qing's lines: "Why do my eyes always brim with tears? Because I love this land deeply..." This deep love lies in the gaps between Old Jin's fingers as he pressed the shutter, in the blood of every Chinese who remembers history, and in every effort we make to better our country.
What Nanjing Photo Studio ultimately tells us is not hatred, but responsibility. It is remembering the warning of "The songstresses know not the shame of a fallen nation, still singing 'The Backyard Flowers' across the river," and fulfilling the duty of "First worry about the world's troubles, then rejoice in its joys." When we safeguard the truth and beauty of our time in our own way, we best respond to those who watched for light in the darkness. For the "cameras" in our hands are no longer just tools to capture light—they carry the vow of "Every inch of land stained with blood, every youth ready to fight," and the loyal heart that cries, "I'd give my life to serve the country; no need to return home even in glory."
Tonight, I pointed my lens at the starry sky outside the window. The bright stars were like Old Jin's unextinguished eyes. I pressed the shutter, capturing this peaceful night, and sending a belated message to those souls forever trapped in 1937: This prosperous age is as you wished.
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