But what would you do if you didn't know what to say? What would you say if you didn't know what to do? Say what-would-you if you-didn't know what to do?
It's that I didn't understand where I was in those two and maybe a half hours. I found myself in this rectangular place where people spoke Japanese, but the English subtitles at the bottom helped me understand. I remember ending up in the midst of all the protagonists' dreams and, rolled into the abyss of oneiric non-sense, I had to meticulously follow all the details of the events, the latter sometimes becoming rivers that flowed into an ocean of dense and fleshy crap, Cronenbergian, the experts say.
Stop. Now I'm in a drawing. It's in drawings that one learns the value of discipline, I think.
How beautiful that little human tree. A bonsai with balls at the base. Light brown. Perhaps there was an advertisement earlier, an interruption.
But am I making up this music on the spot? Or is it part of the whole? Well, the mind engages also in building a background score.
And among those three young ladies, who do I choose? Of course, it's a dream, and I only have to choose. But they talk, talk, talk, and do nothing but chatter. Can you smell that good scent of surrealism? It smells like focaccia.
It's a shame the girl with the racket didn't end up in the dream where I had to choose. It would have been her, I'm sure. Oh, no. A strange leech that had emerged from that man's anus stuck to her arm: fortunately, the expert arrived. From the leech emerged a mini humanoid, and the expert accuses it of harassment because she, well, she's just a girl.
Now there's dancing, how funny is this beat with a metronome. What was I saying? Ah, you're not going to accuse me now, are you? Whatever the accusation, sir, I do not accept it. These are personal matters, right? We're cool, right?
The Polaroids of the past.
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