Tonight, a slick film with blood and gore, revenge killing and righteousness, leaves me wondering: Why?
The « artist » left his mark. You could almost hear him chuckling. Too bad.
« We walk through ourselves, » James Joyce wrote, « meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. »
All is in me and I am in all.