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Kyle 2022-03-21 09:02:33
"Sometimes thoughts are closer to the truth and closer to reality than actions."
I want to end this. "who am I?
After watching the movie, it is not difficult to see that "I" is Lucy, Jake, and the lonely old man - the school cleaner, and more importantly, each of us.
In fact, there has never been a girlfriend to be brought home by Jake, and there is no specific experience of...
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Marcus 2022-03-22 09:02:16
no logic
To be honest, when I started watching it today, I always thought it was a thriller at first, thinking that the heroine would die, or that my parents died in it. The description of the bone dog makes me feel so terrifying and depressing, as well as the part about the basement. I was hanging all the...
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I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes
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Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...
Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!
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Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.
