The voice of the narrator is fragile, empty, sick, and deeply depressed, like a glass to be shattered, filled with rain from the street.
The sound recaptures time in the form of a memory-image along with the cluttered, rough old videotape quality. No more linear, no more holistic vision concerns. Rather, it is fractured and partial. There is a tornado in the distance, but I only pay attention to the dead leaves flying nearby.
Impossible Hometown, Impossible Town. To say it is depraved is not the point at all. Only decadent beauty, only infinite time wasted. The Mystery of Rabbit Boy is a tribute to the mystery and boredom of boyhood sexual repression.
Schizophrenia successfully occupies the transition between the images, and the dialogue is meaningless, surly, and banal. No one lives in this town seriously, except for those who act out of chaos. All meaning is digested, it doesn't really matter what kind of life we live, but what form of irony our life is eliminated from.
You go back to your hometown gloomily in the memory, and you find all kinds of disasters pouring out, floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, but there is no sound, the memory plays cluttered, even the wrong colors. Only later did you notice that there was actually no one there.
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