I feel like a fool saying this.. but at last my robe of invincibility is broken! I did like shit for my Practical MTR test... but the truth is, I never wanted to be put on a pedestal as a 'role model student', it was not without its plus points.. but I have distrusted PERFECTION with capitals in the past. All I wanted last sem was to push myself a little, to try out what it means to try harder, that's all. I never wanted to be the top student or tripled 'A' nut- except bc I wanted a study grant. I know I have so much to learn- such titles only maintain an illusion around my person which I would gladly destroy- It is only the fool or those who dont know you who believe in such things..

What is democratic leadership- if such a thing exists? My belief is that it hardly exists. In may exists in surface representation like having the choice to give a name or choose the colour which the powerpoint slide is printed on- but ultimately the real force and decision making exists somewhere else. So how to make it work? First of all,

1)One must engage your followers at all levels start from the very beginning-
dont wait to the end to proclaim that you are giving people a choice. (That's PAP btw) By that time, the choices that mattered have been decided already.

2)One must communicate and gain respect.
As my former Chinese teacher used to say, "people don't give you face, you create it". Even if all group members are willing to back you wholeheartedly in whatever you do, it does not mean you can do whatever you want and come back weeks later and say its done. Sure, you got the work done, but was anyone else emotionally attached to the work?

3)One has to accept that teamwork brings along a greater risk of failure.. but also success
Do not be so proud to believe in your own efforts- while there is greater risk involved in delegation, there is also a greater sense that the work is shared.

4)One has to recognise that you are your worst enemy
Sure, you may trust your own work- but without feedback- its never going to improve

5)Trust your teammates and stop treating them like dead objects
Give even those who are not willing to contribute- work.

6)If one's idea is very important to the success of the project-
tell everybody upfront In this way, you have more artistic license as well.

7)Communicate and don't let misunderstandings simmer and cook.
Misunderstandings arise when problems are not solved overnight.

In all, I have been disappointed by someone whom I once respected. To me, respect is the most important thing in a friendship, even before love. You can learn to love someone you respect. In love, anything else might not even matter. In losing that respect, I have lost all affection for that person. I'm sorry that things had to come to such a state, but obviously he was too busy defending himself against invisible missiles (did I lob them?) to recognise how badly I wanted to make things right again, how I wanted to heal that tear and shake his hand and say how do you do? I lost respect because he thought I was there to distribute blame and make him look silly- and not, because I still cared. My fault is to have taken bad advice and not resolved this earlier... but since there is no more affection, this will be a full stop-- there is no more to say.

"When I was a child, there were hundreds of windows open, now, I walk through a haunted house of dark windows."

I have become disappointed with myself. The films I wanted to make, I am unable to write them. It is like, by being around people, I have become more cheerful but that has also sapped the energy that could have gone into my writing. I cringe at the words that fall out of my mouth: once there were rubies and small diamonds, now, only toads fall out of my mud-caked lips.

The grades are no consolation. Wasn't it only one year back I could write with flair? It is as if my gift of writing, which I had possessed like a small charm- had suddenly been lost. Toads fall out of my mouth; leeches and beetles slither and tangle my tongue; the hot bellows of my stomach belch forth injurous words; and sharp knives of conceit coat every sentence I utter. I have become the thing I feared. Each morning, in the dark, I search blindly for the gift- a small crystalline pen of black inkyness- that will draw my real self out- but in vain. It is as if my gift has been taken by one who had given it. In my foolishess without my gift of light, I curse, I flail- it is only so long before someone reads me- and strips off the suit I have labourously constructed: of previous grades, grandiloquent statements, and shifting claims and reveal me for the charlatan I am, shivering and small....

I am set in the course of destruction- though you will not perceive it....

Today I was at Orchard Library with Van, Mike and Leon when I saw this book of pictures by Edward Hopper. If any of you can recall, I loved his 'Nighthawks'. Leon was just standing nearby answering Van's questions about Ingmar Bergman when that picture caught his eye.

Edward H paintings have that quality of frozen pyschological stillness. Leon was pointing out the effect of the light in his paintings. I couldn't help comparing Ed.H to Vermeer, who also paints with a great quality of stillness.

However, there is a difference. With Vermeer, his paintings have a captured sunshine, a beautiful ageless warmth- european tactile feel that one almost feels the sunshine cascading off your back.

With Ed.H, even his countryside paintings have the quality of isolation and coldness- like the stunning ice beauty of a movie queen. His people are surrounded by empty black windows, empty streets and the lack of ornamentation of fabrics or clutter. It may be interesting to note he also painted from a car, giving his paintings the look of movie stills. The sunshine drapes over his subjects, giving form but also never giving away their internal abstractions. They rarely smile and are absorbed in staring at space with utter blankness on their faces.

Turning the pages one seems to see an Alphaville, a godless universe, where man is the master of his own isolation. But it is a beautiful one nevertheless...

I find living very difficult. Sometimes I can get terribly depressed over the state of my life. basically I tried to change it and still the old life comes back to haunt me. There are some days I cannot even be cheered by good music. I feel depressed because I can never seem to do well in anything, excepting my studies which do not count for anything- things that I have picked up I gave up.

I wonder sometimes if I should have been allowed to live past 8 years old- since that was the last time I felt genuinely happy- with the world, with myself. Yet I used to cry so often when I was young.

I don't like this life. I dont' like living in a city, feeling pressed to acquire things and knowledge at inhuman speeds. I don't like the stress I get from choosing to do a course in which men excel in and girls are naturally thought of as hopeless in. I don't want to be strong anymore, because that's just a shell to protect me. The things I do, most of the friendships I form, give me no pleasure.

I have no real connection with the music I listen to: excepting very few musicians.. I hate the structured planning shoots demand, i rather do documentaries. I hate the slow way my mind works, which is why I take so many notes. I hate the way I talk, I hate the cleanness surrounding me, I hate the mask I wear. I hate the way I never seem to bring a friendship to another level. I hate my boring self, I hate the part that doesnt let me be satisfied with simplicity.

I just want to feel and connect. Why is that so hard for me? Why is there no one out there who understands this feeling?

My uncle passed away of bone cancer, stick thin, face bloated where the cancer ate into his face. But he was no weakling. Since I was young, he was always a survivor. We were all unable to take care of him because his demands for food, attention were those of a 3 year old. Yet the five months before he passed away, he brought so many people to his life, including an auntie that used to help take care of him when he was a young boy in an Hougang kampung, long-distance cousins, old church ladies. And he was the best of patients, always shaking the bedpost in joy at a familar face.

The last few months I saw him, his limbs strunk to his bones, yet he always gripped my hand to welcome me each time. I massaged his limbs with lotion, knowing that every time I saw him might have been the last. I saw he was a beautiful soul trapped in a disabled mind. He could have been my favourite uncle and lived a life of fulfillment. But God choose him to be like this. Perhaps there is some reason. But it doesnt matter anymore.

His funeral lasted only two days, yet we were visited by hundreds of people and the mood was light- for in essence when we threw his ashes into the clear azure sea, we hoped finally he would be whole and happy.. I wish the best for him.

Muholland Drive has a beautiful Spanish version of this song...

Roy orbison

Roy: I was all right for a while
I could smile for a while
Kd: but I saw you last night
You held my hand so tight
When you stopped to say hello
Roy: you wished me well
You couldn’t tell that
I’ve been crying over you,
Crying over you and you said so long
Left me standing all alone,
Alone and crying, crying, crying, crying
It’s hard to understand
Kd: but the touch of your hand can start me crying

Roy: I thought that I was over you
But it’s true, so true
I love you even more than I did before
But darling, what can I do?
For you don’t love me
Kd: and I’ll always be
Crying over you, crying over you

Roy: yes now you’re gone
Both: and from this moment on, I’ll be crying, crying, crying, crying
Yeah, crying, crying over you

I had a extremely lucid dream this morning one hour after I passed into dreaming. I was dreaming that the Esplanade had a subterrean library that contained only fiction. At some point, I saw one of the books had the name of my friend- C. N.D- so immediately I knew I was dreaming. I then tried very hard to wake.

The first time, I woke in my bedroom, facing the window with the stars outside. I had a rectangular piece of glutinous stuff on my left hand. It felt very real- but somehow, I knew my mind was tricking me.

I woke again, in the same situation, but still I felt the thing on my left hand. I saw a camcorder floating in the air and sort of swiped it with my right hand- and then my hand did a very strange thing- it passed through it like how you see in movies, a black shadow- except in slow-mo. I kept waking in the same dream- but it was very hard, like a heavy curtain was over my head. And each if the 5-7 times I knew I had to wake because I still felt the sticky thing in my left hand.

After like 30secs of real time-(feeling like 30mins in dream) I woke again. This time I felt nothing on my hand. I scrambled to turn on the light and write down my dream- before I lost the dream... I never had such a lucid dream before where I knew my mind was lying to me and I attempted to pull myself out from it...

I havent got down to writing my scripts..damm The hols have been enjoyable only for the reason I managed finally to watch Twin Peaks by David Lynch. I don't have a video player so I cant watch the Singing Detective videos at esplib which is a story about a detective- 'Philip Marlowe' imagine tt! who suffers from a rare skin disease tt makes him hallucinate. Enough about that.

Anyway, I was thinkin of a story along the lines of a kid getting recruited to run a supply chain for drugs- a stodgy premise, I can say. havent been getting the inspiration much these days. Not enough wierd dreams to run the mill. I dont want to just write a 'mood' piece- many directors in singapore have done that. Something dark and funny, disturbing and with wierd characters- tt's my kind of script.... Anyway, Val and I have been meeting up to spill our brains- its a murderous piece with a nun, a psycho teacher and psycho kids. Personally, I would love it to be a piece that shreds the characters and society into bits- but I havent thought how to build them up- so I can chew them up. still, Val doesnt know my murderous intents... heheh

would you like to upsize your meal?
We have a special promotion eat ur cornflake, listen to
the hangman, crispy fried chicken,
and we have 300 free gifts to give away!
The first 100 callers stand to win an -
batteries not included, my barbie cooking on the barbie,
someone thought you were dead-

it whitens ur skin texture in just 3 weeks!-
she lost 3.45 inches in the first treatment-
takes away your craving for food
the car of perfection,
ur hairless armpit and bobbing breast of perfection
satin veet whitened mariefranced
Beautiful Venus

My previous story was written on the spur of the moment: I had this image of a woman b/t two crushed underground elevators in an underground station. The the idea went on was that she would meet this naked man whom she presumes to be a victim of burns bc of an accident. She gives him her jacket. They go along looking for an exit n meet a mysterious, joker type character whom she distrusts immediately. Along the way they met a carnivorous dwarf n all sort of characters- and eventually finds out tt trust is not to be placed. I wrote the story based on the guy looking for his wife, and the naked man actually being a dangerous character... it was not influenced by 28 days for tt matter(written in june '03) but i can say 'ghost in the shell' had some part in the female character...

This is my storytelling submitted final draft: hope u like it. i don't. it was written as a jap anime story at first- a lot has been compromised to make into 3 pgs..

Standing among faces in the crowd like the pale mask of death is Sumi, listening to her headphones. The crowd sways hypnotically to the rhythm of the train, talking and laughing soundlessly. The train slowly crawls down to a stop in a tunnel filled with darkness. Everybody slowly snaps out of their reverie. In the expectant silence, a child peers out the window at bluish lamps. Sumi cracks her mask when she opens her eyes and takes off her headphones. A far off rumbling starts and gets bone-rattling louder. A phrase, flashes like a beacon in her head, "Death under…"

CRASH OF PIANO KEYS/ACCOMPANIED BY VISUAL OF STOCK FOOTAGE OF BOMB BURNING WHITE

A hundred doors cobra-like open and clamp heavily close on abandoned pieces of luggage. An automatic voice drones, "WILL ALL PASSAGERS PLEASE STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE." A woman is seated between two stairs of buckled metal holding her ankle together. It is bloody with cut glass. Her pale face is framed by unruly black hair. Her office suit, a greyish blue ensemble with white shell top, is stained with splotches of blood. Unseen,a clock is ticking; and once or twice she looks up warily before examining her feet under the solitary emergency orange light above her. A small sound like the shuffling of feet reaches her. She freezes.

"WHO'S THAT? SHOW YOURSELF!"

A man walks out furtively from the shadows behind a pillar. He watches her like a cat watching a mouse. He is bald, wearing a grey polo shirt. Deliberately, he takes off his sunglasses, snapping them close. His eyes are ringed with darkness, and the irises are black, dark with long knife-like lashes. With a glance he takes in everything: her bloodied feet, her clothes. He mocks her with a slight bow.

"HOW DO YOU DO, PRINCESS? HOW IS TIME? … LOOK! THERE'S NO TIME!" He points to his broken watch. "HOW CAN YOU COUNT THE TIME? IT'S TIME TO EAT WHEN YOU'RE HUNGRY… AND THE RIDDLE IS, WHAT DO YOU EAT? WHAT DO YOU EAT…PRINCESS?" He sidles towards her. Her eyes drink in the man. She squeezes her eyes shut in the darkness, reaches in her jacket and pulls a knife and lunges wildly at his stomach.

"STOP THAT!!!" She screams in alarm. When she opens her eyes he is clutching his bloodied arm; the mocking smile gone. He opens his mouth, and then closes it. A cloud moves over his eyes. "…I THINK I WAS LOOKING FOR MY WIFE."
"WHAT?" she says, suddenly blustered.
"IN THAT DREAM, SHE WAS DEAD, I WAS LOOKING FOR HER IN HELL."
"YOU HAVE A WIFE?"
"IN THIS DARKNESS, I DON'T KNOW. I REALLY DON'T."

She picks up herself but her shoulders are strung like a loaded spring. A crash of a dustbin toppling & men shouting harshly makes them look at each other. Their eyes flit over to a phone booth. Sumi wrenches him into it and they squat and hide there, straining their ears. A heavy sound of a body banging against the booth startles them. Voices crowd around.
"JUST GET HIM WILL YOU?"
"PLEASE..NO! GOD HELP ME!! SOMEONE!"
"KEEP HIM QUIET. PUT HIS NECK UP. GIVE ME THE KNIFE… THIS WOULDN'T HURT A BIT."

Someone kicks the booth violently. A jagged searing wet sound is made. The face falls near Sumi. The eyes look at her accusingly. She flinches and turns towards the man. The voices continue in their business-like tones.

"WHERE IS THE STRETCHER? BLEED HIM SO HE'LL LAST."
"MAMOM, WILL YOU GIVE ME MORE FOR MY FAMILY TO EAT?"
"LET'S SPEAK LATER… THIS IS SERIOUS MADNESS."
She looks into the man's long lashed eyes (she comes to call him Eizan), so like infinite mirrors to hers. She sees a glimpse of deep-seated unease before he puts on his sunglasses that reflect all the darkness in the booth.

They are walking in water that seems to swell from everywhere. Pieces of ragged clothing, luggage become flotsam in the water. She stumbles slowly. The flow of water is coming from the tunnel itself. An underground train door left open is letting fetid water out. A mortified looking old woman swallowed in layers of black clothes is leaning by the door. A husk of a boat anchored nearby floats unmoving in the flow of water.

"IS THIS THE WAY OUT?" Sumi asks. The woman appears to be lifeless as a wax Tussand's. Slowly she turns her head to look at Eizan. He is inscrutable under the glasses. She nods. Abruptly, she stirs; climbs into the boat which starts to creak and move. The warm haze roils about.

Sumi says, "EIZAN, THIS SEEMS LIKE A VISION, A DREAM."
"I DON'T HAVE DREAMS NOW WHEN I SLEEP." Eizan replies.
Sumi frowns, considering this. "ARE WE DEAD?"
"I DON'T KNOW. WHY DON'T YOU PINCH YOURSELF HARD?"

Sumi pinches her upper arm and twists it violently. She hardly winces although it registers as blue-red on her dead white skin. She says, "I DON'T SEEM ALIVE." At this, the old woman starts singing a rhythmless & delusional song. Sumi's grip loosens, and her head starts dip precariously to the side. Eizan is looking at the old woman who keeps glancing at Sumi.

She speaks, in a solemn voice, "I CAN GIVE YOU BACK YOUR WIFE." Eizan then turns to look at Sumi perturbedly. Sumi's skin starts to crawl. In her clouded mind, she reaches for her knife in a supreme effort and throws it at him. A glimpse of metal flies in the haze. The knife crosses his arm and cuts a deep bloody gash. At once, the boat hits a sandbank, jolting Eizan who then picks up the knife. Sumi scrambles out, limping. Eizan gets out, painted with perspiration and blood. They hear the old woman laugh deliriously. They turn to see only Sumi's blood soaked shoe in the boat. It then tips over and slides silently as a shroud into the bottomless water.

He stares at her, hollow eyed, breathless.
"I'M GOING MAD."
"IT'S JUST THE LIGHT." She says coldly & taps at her eyes.
"YES I KNOW…" He takes off his sunglasses shakily.
"WE'LL NEVER GET OUT OF HERE. I SAW IT MYSELF IN THE BOAT." She laughs softly.

In front of them is a wall of rubble and rocks. On their left and right, the tunnel walls. Eizan looks at the darkness behind him.

He says, "WOULD YOU LIKE TO DIE FIRST?"
"YES. YOU CAN EAT ME. LIKE THEY ALL DO." Her eyes take on a wary flicking look.
He rebukes her. "DON'T BE VULGAR. I'M NOT EXPECTING TO LIVE,"
"GIVE ME MY KNIFE." He hands the knife still bloodied, to her. She looks at it darkly. "YOU WANT TO KNOW?" she says, "I STILL WANT TO SEE THE SUN."

A deep rumbling of rocks and false sea-like sound of train horns echo somewhere far. They seem to be listening but both faces are marked with the paleness of travel. Weary like the entire weight of the world was on her shoulders, Sumi collapses and sits on the ground.

"DON'T COME NEAR ME," Sumi says heavily. The knife lies prone, glistening, loose in her hand. "IT'S THE ONLY WAY WE'LL COME OUT OF THIS - ALIVE."
-Look into my eyes.. It's the only way you'll know I'm telling the truth- (Knives out: radiohead)

Smoke City
Underwater Love

This must be underwater love
The way I feel it slipping all over me
This must be underwater love
The way I feel it

O que que ?esse amor, d'água
Deve sentir muito parecido a esse amor
This is it
Underwater love
It is so deep
So beautifully liquid

Esse amor com paixão, ai
Esse amor com paixão, ai que coisa

After the rain comes sun
After the sun comes rain again
After the rain comes sun
After the sun comes rain again

O que que ?esse amor, d'água
Eu sei que eu não quero mais nada

Radiohead:Pyramid Song

I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cars
All the things I used to see
All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt

I jumped into the river
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cars
And all the things I used to see
All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt

There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt

haunting.

Director: Wim Wenders

When was the last time you watched a movie that made you feel that the director took a key and opened a portal into your head? Your dreams, in fact. I once woke up with tears in my eyes because I dreamt of a young lady with a pair of small wings on her back, standing at a barbed wire fence overlooking a propaganda painted wall that was scarred with bulletholes. Some bullet shots were heard but because of her sunday morning prayer, they ceased. Something struck me that it was a communist state like East Germany or Russia in the past and she was an angel. A post-card angel. Dreams are the fantastic. But isn't it amazing that they are that beautiful? Where do this common human dreams come from?

A shot of an old man (the storyteller) telling of a place long gone in a place now full of weeds moved me to tears because I remembered my dream. Nobody saw me cry. But dreams are like this, full of unrequited tears, full of unrequited longing for something perfect, something lost.

In the movie, an angel falls in love with a mortal woman. He enters her dream and she longs for him. In his world, they may listen and feel, but it is all by proxy. He longs to feel the real world. Finally he is transformed into human by choosing to be- and he seeks her where she finds he is the one in the dreams. It is a beautiful poem- but one tt cannot be explained. You must watch it..

Director: Sofia Coppola

Lost in Translation is an Ode to the city of Tokyo and Japan as well as a poetic renditation of that beautiful fleeting place between a friendship and love.

Sofia talks of how difficult it was to try to convince others of her script..

"But a part of me was still thinking, 'This is an original screenplay, is it just indulgent? Will anyone care about this?' But I just wanted to make it, and I just wanted to see it, and it didn't really matter about anything else, or what anyone else thought."

And her choice of Bill Murray:

"Yeah," she says, quietly but firmly. "People would say to me, 'Think of another choice [of actor].' But the whole thing was I didn't want to make this movie without Bill Murray. And I really wanted to make it in Tokyo. In my dreams, that was what I would do. There was no choice."

Sofia Coppola, daughter of Francis Coppola director of the Godfather trilogies & Apocalypse- did not start out wanting to be a director. But she had early talent in drawing- and this lead later to her interest in photography. Many of the shots in 'Lost in Translation' has that poetic feel of the still camera- of the lights and space. A high ASA film was used to shoot scenes in dark pubs, and a lightweight camera and crew helped give the film a most intimate study of the people and city of Tokyo. This is a city she loves. We see Sofia's enjoyment of the city through Charlotte(Scarlett)- it is one populated by friends but also of being different, & not adapting..

When Bob Harris(Bill) tells his wife about the crazy fun he has in Tokyo, she asks- so you are happy there- but he says- no, it isn't happiness, it's a different thing- We listen because it is the familiar- And we all have known friendships that have treaded tt fragile line.. Sofia's film is not indulgent- it is simply a story that will resonate with all of us. Little wonder this film has garnered Golden Globe awards & Emmy nominations.. I give this film 4 smokes!/5

movies with interesting humanistic conceits- what if humans were not alone in the universe, what if the life you are living is a lie- have always fuelled the imagination of filmmakers worldwide. A list of cult movies 'Memento', 'The Matrix', 'Fight Club', '2001: The Odyssey' points us to the strength of such concerns. Yet as 'Matrix Revoluntions' would have us know, conceits of the mind alone do not a good movie make. 'Goodbye Lenin' is a movie that begins with the usual conceit:'what if someone had a coma and wakes up?'. It goes further to state that this person goes into coma just before the fall of the Berlin Wall and basically just sleeps through the entire event and the inflitration of capitalism into East Germany. However, unlike most predictable coma movies, it is not the protagonist who has to adapt to the newness, rather, it is her children, who in order to prevent any shocks that might prove fatal, cushion these changes by pretending that communism never left.

'Goodbye Lenin' is an extraordinary movie. It is sentimental and nostalgic, but never schumucky. The director Wolfgang Becker, shows this by filming most of the movie key scenes in 'the golden hour'- otherwise known as sunrise or sunset. This lends the film a beautiful, haunting lyricism that plays beautifully with the ironically funny narration of Alex. For instance, the military parade is named as 'the parade of the one of the world's last great shooting clubs'.. and a march to destroy the wall as 'we were walking for the right to take evening walks without the wall getting in the way'. Alex's mother- Christine- a faithful steadfast socialist, falls into a coma after seeing Alex being hauled up a military truck arresting protestors. For years, she lies with no indication of time. However, one day she wakes, and in order to prevent her getting a second heart attack, Alex obsessively trudges the city for communist products to convince her she was asleep only for 8 months. 'Mocha Gold Fix Coffee!' With a help of a good friend and wannabe director, they make up stories of an East Germany which has opened its borders to west germans for them to 'escape' the drudgery of capitalism and consumerist lifestyles.. after his mother wakes up to find shocking capitalist billboards of bras over the city!

The movie centres on Alex's obessesion which even his sister and lover finds increasingly creepy. But we never find Alex's devotion to his mother creepy- increasingly, we are drawn into the small world he has created, for his mother, for the idealist in him who admits, that the Germany he created was what he would have liked it to have been.

Whereas anyone with small knowledge of Communist propaganda and mind-control would have been sickened by any sentimentality of East Germany post-Berlin wall- the movie does not exactly glorify it.. it is just saying the ideal Germany has passed out of our consciousness to live in Christine when she dies, or in Alex's when he sees what Christine believes in.

The movie never says whether Christine realises she has been had, but the affectionate look she gave Alex while watching the 'news' seems to tell us, that she did. Isn't human love so strange, that we live for ideals we think the other believes in- and they vice versa?

The script for Good Bye, Lenin! took the EFA prize for best screenwriting. And indeed the script-writer deserves it. I have not watched a movie with such a rounded storyline and characters for a long time. The various subplots: the sister's estrangement with her mother, the missing father, the failed cosmonaut, all give us a indication of failed idealism of a people who were brought up to live lives of explemary perfectionism- as Ariane's boyfriend points out 'East germans love to complain, west germans, they don't care...'

'Goodbye Lenin' is a movie of beautiful conception that reveals to us flaws of love, such that we realise them to be that of uncommon beauty itself..

. . . .. .. .. ............ .. .. . .
like a braille on the faces
black rain falls
midnight in the land

holding onto their reins
of nightmares running through
whizzing rain on the smoked ground
people drowned in their sleep

and the old
mumble prayers, protestations to
ancient gods, woodland ghosts
who fled the rent earth

the doctor, the shop-keeper
lie aside like ashen figures
the child treats them
with trickles of dry river
they die soon

but for
that darkness bide
her time
before the sun
naked in his fury
will burn them where they lie.

(hiroshima)

testing.. *hello.. hallow? HARLOW??"