Why, Mr. Anderson?
Why, why, why?
Why do you do it?
Why? Why get up?
Why keep fighting?
Do you believe you're fighting for something? For more than your survival?
Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know?
Is it freedom or truth?
Perhaps peace? Could it be for love?
Illusions, Mr. Anderson. Vagaries of perception.
Temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect. . .
trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose!
And all of them as artificial as the Matrix itself. . .
although only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love.
You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson. You must know it by now.
You can't win. It's pointless to keep fighting.
Why, Mr. Anderson, why? Why do you persist?
This paragraph is too classic, and instantly pierced through the British Academy of Drama. The last time I saw this kind of solo was the little devil in GOT.
Bombed by special effects for two hours, but it is rare to not feel visual fatigue, it is worthy of the name a treat to the eyes. Human art treasures like this series and Avatar, can you re-screen several times please?
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