Lost In Translation
Cosimo Galluzzi

shark vs the universe

Andulka
trying on a metaphor
KIROKAZE
Peter Solarz
d e v o n

Product Placement
sheepfilms
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Not today Justin

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
wallacepolsom


JBB: An Artblog!

JVL

pixel skylines
Keni

ellievsbear

Love Begins

seen from Malaysia
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@drk0
Lost In Translation

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Am I a pattern? By FalseKnees
The Bear
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫
Dune

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Blade Runner 2049
Another Round (2020)
Dr. Manhattan's Monologue
I am looking at the stars. They are so far away. And their light takes so long to reach us. All we see of stars are their old photographs.
It’s July, 1959, and I am in love. Her name is Janey Slater. She is a physicist like me. I am 30 years old. We were introduced by a good friend of mine from college, Wally Weaver.
It is February 12, 1981. Wally dies of cancer which they now say I am the cause.
That night, Janey and I make love for the first time. A month from now the accident awaits me.
I cross the room to the Intrinsic Field Center. I find my watch. [Door slams shuts] When I get to the door, Wally is turning white. I am terrified.
It is May 12th, 1959, when I’m introduced to Janey. She buys me a beer, the first time a woman has done this for me. As she passes me the cold, perspiring glass, our fingers touch.
I feel fear for the last time. A token funeral is held. There is nothing to bury. Janey frames the snapshot. It’s the only photograph of me anyone has.
A circulatory system is seen by the perimeter fence. A few days later, a partially muscled skeleton stands in a hallway and screams for a moment before vanishing.
They call me Dr. Manhattan. They explain the name has been chosen for the ominous associations it will raise in America’s enemies. They are shaping me into something gaudy, something lethal.
In January, 1971, President Nixon asks me to intervene in Vietnam, something that his predecessors would not ask. A week later, the conflict ends. Some of the Vietcong forces wanna surrender to me personally.
Hollis Mason, a retired costume hero, writes a book. In it, he calls my arrival the dawn of the superhero. I am not sure if I know what that means.
It is Christmas, 1963. Janey tells me she is afraid, and worried. She says I am like a god now. I tell her I don’t think there is a God, and if there is, I’m nothing like Him. I tell her I still want her and that I always will.
As I lie to her, it is September 4th, 1970. I am in a room full of people wearing disguises. A very young girl looks at me and smiles. She’s beautiful. After each long kiss, she plants a smaller, gentler one upon my lips, like a signature.
Janey accuses me of chasing jailbait. She bursts into angry tears, asking if it’s because she’s getting older. It’s true. She’s aging more noticeably every day, while I am standing still.
I prefer the stillness here. I am tired of Earth. These people. I’m tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives. They claim their labors are to build a heaven, yet their heaven is populated with horrors. Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. A clock without a craftsman. It’s too late. Always has been, always will be, too late.
Black Box.
One night, while driving along the national route with no other company than the starry blanket, a dense fog enveloped me, shaking me from my course. I continued cautiously, but it grew thicker and thicker, invading the cabin with an intense smell of fire that burned my eyes. I stopped on the side of the road, took courage to get out and found myself enveloped in a burning reddish cloud, feeling an embracing heat. I moved forward covering my mouth and managed to make out the flashing beacons of my car in the distance. I felt the grass of the surrounding fields under my feet, and the heat hit me like an indomitable current. I understood that the fog was the product of a voracious fire that was consuming everything in its path a few meters away from me. I saw metal debris and structures, and as I brought my hands to my face, unable to think due to the sweat and heat, I made out what appeared to be half of a burning airplane. As my lungs filled with smoke, I tried to comprehend what had happened. I found no fresh marks on the ground, how could this accident have happened without leaving a visible trace or anyone hearing it? Far away from my car, the only thing I could think of was to keep going. At that moment, from the fire focus, what looked like a stampede of people approached. I didn’t see them injured, but their behavior was strange and their faces were blurred, they were dressed in black, shouting screams that made my blood run cold. They gathered around me and their hands embraced me, I could not breathe. I could not breathe. What was happening? Suddenly, a white light from the sky covered us completely and a metallic, distorted and strident sound was heard. In a second, as I blinked, I found myself back on the road, paralyzed with fear and with the car a few meters away. Everything seemed to be calm. The night lay quiet, the stars shone with their usual radiance and the whisper of the night breeze filled the air. However, as I looked down, my attention was caught by a metallic flash. A shiver ran down my spine. It was an airplane belt buckle.

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Endless Poetry (2016) - Alejandro Jodorowsky
A salaried job and routine clip the wings of any poet.
"A wooden horse. K holds it out to Deckard. Deckard sees it. Takes it. Can't believe it still exists. Something made with love all those years ago for a child Deckard never met.
It is symbolic of so much - Deckard's sacrifice, the humanity K so desperately yearns for. He wants to have been "Born, not made" and it leads him to Deckard, and that final sacrifice. It is also a lovely call back to the unicorn."
Videodrome (1983)

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