The ravings of an old single dog

Alvera 2022-04-21 09:02:51

It should be the imagination of the single old man before he died. He never fulfilled his parents' wish to bring his daughter-in-law home. At the same time, he recalled the time when his parents were together, so the heroine is just a self-projected ideal. For what one person did, he might also be at fault, such as the waiter at the ice cream shop, so he avoided and couldn’t help but recall, so in the end, the old self killed the young self. When the heroine hugged and separated from the old man in the corridor, she should have It is the last moment of his death, and all the fragments of intentions are attributed to the ideal sadness.

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Extended Reading
  • Linnea 2022-03-27 09:01:13

    A movie with a lot of monologue lines, a movie suitable for a person to watch like a book.

  • Alphonso 2022-03-28 09:01:07

    The most amazing thing about this film is that it is two hours and 15 minutes long. From 30 minutes, I feel that it fits the name of the film.

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.