When the film was released, it should have been three years ago. After watching the first 5 minutes, I gave up. Soldiers, farce, exotics, America, nationalism, old Eastern European outcasts....
I think enough is
enough, enough of Afghanistan, enough of Taliban, enough of peacekeeping, enough of watching two nights every day without sleep The party spit on Brown's wrinkled face, and I'm fed up with BBCNEWS, fed up with the shameless bullshit counterterrorism and modern warfare bombarding my eardrums and cranial nerves every day.
At the time I was allergic to all the armored stuff in the media. Too many moments in my life have been forcing myself to fight against the high-sounding.
One day after I was no longer able to resist being fully armed, I read the news of the director's death in the newspaper and gave this film a high score.
Human skin can't stand itching, so I found this film again.
One is hypocrisy, thinking that the legacy of a young soul is worth much. The second is unhappy, a thing that I can't watch in 5 minutes gets a high score. Three was Catherine, who was my script director at the time, and I don't think this woman would write bad stuff, even though she never really liked the movie. The last reason that prompted me to finish it was boredom. During that time I was sick, lazy and dumb, I mean mentally. I can't watch any moving images, they make me vomit. I can't even move my finger to press open, I'm itchy, I think it's cool to burn all the DVDs in the house.
I didn't burn it, but I burned this disc from Catherine.
Having said all that, I have no intention of commenting on this movie.
Not a single word of thought
I want to say is another thing. like a dream
I accidentally stepped on a snail on my way home one day. For some reason, I'm not saddened by its death. I stood there watching its squished body and the fluid gushing out. I try to outline its full and vibrant original appearance, I try to find the trajectory when it came, so as to speculate where it will go. What I found, however, was that I couldn't see any clues, that all emotions came from self-experience and then imposed them on it. I stood there, looking at its deformed, weak corpse. This snail, I don't feel sorry for it, I have never participated in its life, I don't think I have this qualification, and I don't have the qualifications to blame myself. I feel that the fact that I trampled it to death is so faint in its life that it is almost imperceptible, like dust, like a void. On that dark path, the decision to decide its death is something that a person like me is qualified to decide.
I actually know that this event itself, and I, are not farts to the people and things that matter in this snail's life trajectory.
California Dreamin
LH/
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