The joy of this book: picking apart, to weave together, the maddening threads, had to end. I think this pushed the author into despair. To be the fatal film, words would have to transcend the real, and tickle endlessly the nucleus accumbens. It could not salve the scars of life.
About the Creator
Stéphane Dreyfus
Melanchoholic.
It’s just me. Growing old and wrong. A time lapse bonsai soul, clipped and curtailed in all the worst ways.
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