Durin looked at his sketch, having never seen that painting before, but he still drew it by hand with his pen, a grand image unfolding, with a long shot stretching out, Heroic Spirits walking through the Wheat Field, the creator gently stroking the back of a young lynx, who laughed shyly.
The filmmakers of this world are really committing a crime, Durin became confident—let him educate these incompetents with various images. After all, film isn't called the eighth art form following literature, theater, music, dance, sculpture, painting, and architecture because of these incompetents shooting girls' thighs.
At that thought, Durin glanced at his pocket watch—in fact, the noise outside had already told Durin that it was lunchtime.
As he stood up to return his books, the library's custodian came over, "Please go and have your meal, young master. We will take care of these books for you."
"How could I impose?" Durin still felt a bit embarrassed.
