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Marge 2022-04-20 09:02:07

1. A man who knows his limit, creates a woman who appears to be the protagonist, to "gaze" in himself. 2. The only thing that confuses me is trouble me: why every time Kaufman wants to talk about the protagonist, the carrier is ugly and weak, even the body is rotten, the depressed head is lowered, and even the outbreak looks like a morbid danger Yes, the one that will be ignored the most in the corner is to stay in the corner all the time so it won't be the other the bright side - this choice is fine, but...every time only people who pile up these extreme elements will talk about death, ultimate The loneliness... It makes people feel too hard and distorted. It doesn't have to be true. People on the bright side will do the same. 3. Take a casual note: The man's last: a fantasy awards ceremony where everyone applausehim, where he counts what he thinks is important: a. I'm better than him; b. Everyone thinks I'm better than him c. I pursue love but she doesn't want me but it doesn't matter d. I still have a woman who belongs to me. e. Well whether I want to or not, I admit that my mom "made" me, f. Everyone thinks I'm great. The woman's last: blablabka doesn't know what he's talking about, unfortunately, he doesn't.

4. Talking about we are all programed, no matter if you talk about social program or we are the product of nature program, it is better to introduce a little science, cuz it's real eyeopenning. Otherwise, this important point is wasted.

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I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • 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!

  • 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.