I want to end it all, whoever it is.

Consuelo 2022-04-22 07:01:41

A surrealist film (I haven't understood it yet, I thought it was a mixture of time and space and horror), it is about the stream of consciousness of the male protagonist, the old cleaner is the male protagonist, and Jack and the female protagonist Lucy are both. A product of the male protagonist's consciousness. After visiting Jack's parents, a conversation goes something like this: "People always think of themselves as moving points between time, but I think maybe the opposite, we're stationary, time passes through us like a cold wind The same blowing through, taking our heat away, leaving us cracked and frozen. I feel like I'm the cold wind tonight, blowing past Jack's parents, watching their past, watching their future, watching them leave I am the only one left, and only the wind is left." In addition to the award at the end, it is possible that in the fantasy Jack is studying the interaction of time and space and consciousness, and this character setting made the male protagonist die. , which can be understood as the subconscious mutual control of the stream of consciousness. The male protagonist is actually a person who grew up in the family of a mother with tinnitus and a father with Alzheimer's disease, and who knows many fields at the same time. Maybe because he is unwilling, he has always been a cleaner. , fantasized about the day when he was discovered and recognized.

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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.