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Tamara 2022-04-22 07:01:41
I can't, I just fucking can't
it's fucking pathetically sad.
so sad you knew everything Kaufman is insinuating but just can't admit it!
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Elfrieda 2022-03-24 09:02:43
my child room
Miserable. Seeing that I don’t want to think about any questions that humans can think about, I will live in the cold winter first. Watching this movie on a winter afternoon with a light rain, I felt very cold and scared. I am afraid of this loneliness, but I do not believe in this loneliness. Most...
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Era 2022-03-25 09:01:14
Reciting the poem "Bone Dog" and returning home in despair, the rabies virus damages nerve endings only for its own reproduction, just as a bad movie needs to take root in the audience's brain, so the name of Jimmy, who keeps throwing hair, is engraved on the ashes of the bookshelf ;Follow the Queen of Ice Cream Town to dream of singing and dancing life in a soap opera-like teaching building, and finally live as a pig with maggots in the cruel farm; You are the reason for my existence, but you do not exist, just like there is no objective color in the universe, It's just a physiological response to the human brain triggered by electromagnetic waves... Extremely sad, lonely to death, Charlie Kaufman did it again
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Crystal 2022-03-26 09:01:09
The ultimate competition of movie screenwriters is "Tao". It depends on who's way of thinking, perspective of the world, and insight into the essence of human nature. Once you figure it out, "art" is not so important.
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I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes
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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.
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Young Woman: That's misogynistic claptrap! Freudian bullshit! A person, an adult, has to, at one point or another, take responsibility for who they are.
