Pierrot Le Fou (Godard, 1965)

We’ve given in to the strange masses of grand consumption that dangle like pearls before our eyes. Blurried and bloodshot, they flicker with the blinking stars painted on the ceiling of this room, while our daydreams are pressed like roses between anonymous pages. You, you wild and free child, born of bastardized lies. You were honest when you said you never knew the truth, and I didn’t believe you. We only believe what strangers tell us. “They never lie” said, the stranger in my ear.

So let us spin, through the backdrop that never changes, and let our daydream romance play in the picture shows, while we shift uncomfortably in our seats. My hand in yours, beginning to sweat, but we never mind, our eyes transfixed on our smiling faces, a million times brighter than we could ever imagine.

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