I love how their emotions were exploding, the women looked down—

you cannot even see the wires. Since these people never work, existentially flip—

Papier mache planetoid hurtling through pink space—given that the music is

cliche makes it all the more poignant, waves crash/ uniforms / pistolazos

that director is the best of them all because of this product absorbed time

so repetitious it is epic, largesse of images wash over the screen and recede without stains.

In spite of buckets of blood, crackle of wild grimacing, hoots. Little bits. Then what happened?

Prismatic fluids of the essence of the soul, somebody famous those celebrity deals.

Great fabrics, revealing the utter homelessness of existence and rooms. REAL DIALOGUE,

THEN WE RAINED OUT IN NIGHT STREETS, homologous with a million little lights.