two hundred six

Hiroshima, Mon Amour is about as perfect as cinema gets, and i had this whole long thing about violence and how it’s unforgivable and neverending savagery–especially when you talk about Atomic and Hydrogen bombs–but we had this big barbecue today for my cousin who’s finally returned to the ground of his birth and there were many drinks to be had and ambitions been lost in bottles and before that i was toiling but learning more about the future than i ever tried to remember about the past because–if Erickson holds true [and i believe he do, for all i’m worth, because nothing’s been more real than those words he wrote]–japan is a memoryless land full of dreams because dreams are but memories of the future and for them there’s naught but.

Anycase, i feel like writing a milelong sentence, like always, because drink does that to me, makes me push and pull and scream and dance, but, with wine, there’s nothing else that matters but her fading face, those blue irises that you buried centuries of past lives in only to pray that you’d dig them back out when you see her generations from now and you’re alive long past your death and she’s finally who you always dreamt of but never knew she was.

Um, yeah. Anyrate, it’s interesting, this film, because it lives in my realm, the realm of impermanence and crumbling memory and forever love, always impossible, always untimely. It’s perfect, truly.

Dream sweet, Starchild.

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