The past thick dark fog deafening noise conflicting voices Condensed creates the present the city itself, its signs human folly scars Look closer From the bridge simple day of spring sun reflected in the water cherry trees, newborn green grass The present not a culmination of the past but defiance Nature’s blissful indifference
Boddinstraße Memento Mori
The ambulances come and go, loud as fuck, who knows where from and where to, day and night, weekdays and weekends, in meticulously selected random intervals, perfectly timed to disturb everything mundane. A sip of tea. A word. A kiss. Do you really have to, for the sake of a single man, aggressively remind the rest of the Universe of its heat death? Exhausted, I had to leave Boddinstraße, but it didn’t leave me: survivor’s guilt.
A movie is a window or a mirror? Windows open to the outside, mirrors, to the inside. Melancholia doesn’t seem to fit any alternative. It doesn’t automatically give us any insight into ourselves or the outer world. Nevertheless, it seems to produce a powerful effect in the attentive spectator. Why? Soundtrack …