Italians don't make movies, they capture us bare. In all our vulnerability. In all our running-aways. In all our hollowness.
Good Morning Heartache is one such of their films. Been haunting me for almost three months after having watching it. A must for anyone out, in and grown out of love (what does anyone understand about it, anyway?).
In hard times,
I hold my candle
weeping against your robe
and you daintily listen to my unspoken woes.
In other times,
you live in your world, I, mine
We don't need acknowledgment
and a bond to keep us, or even enliven our souls.
Francis Bacon wrote humbly brilliant essays. How well he dismisses Tabula Rasa. Bertrand Russel can never measure up to him.
I've a horrid opinion that this blog has become a priori.