Jack says, “It didn’t go anywhere,” and I say, ” I kind of like that,” and Jack says, “It built to no crescendo,” and I say, “It built though. There was something. A gradual progression, a stuttered climb, cluttered with faux philosophy and obscure sexual references, but it was still fairly steady, I think.”
We watch Shame and decide that the two inter-spliced might make a satisfying narrative that was visually subdued and stunning at the same time.
In bed after Jack says, “I’d still want something to happen. I’ll always be waiting. And everything interim will never be enough.” But I’m the opposite. I stopped waiting for something because life is a series of circles in which it’s better to end up without what you want if you want productivity, if you’re after profundity, if you want a shot at prolificacy. We sleep at different angles, me with my arm under my head, and at two a.m., or a quarter to three, it’s completely numb, as though it was never there at all.