Hold on a minute; let me paint my mirror. Let me bend my eyes to see the show of posture and jazz in a world stagnate. If you control your mouth (yes, press it) you control everything.

You control the eyes and the hands of the lovers and loved.You control the feet and the distance of the men of keys. You control the passing property of the plebes tied up in their gray worlds in their gray jobs in their gray families in their gray pants. None are free but me. 

Their fear overwhelms them, and fear being the Sin. The apple to the domestic man. Fear being their chains. They fear the free, the me. The one who is not chained with them is the one who can escape their slow tired grasp. Gray hands to stop my feet.

But I will never stop the show, the race, this run. I will dance to the night's song and sleep the day. My work is taking yours. 

Only something brings me back. My running turns around. And I find myself repeating for the first time. Never repeat your audience, I say. Yet there she is. A mirror cracked.

À bout de souffle (1960) by Jean-Luc Godard
Rating +3? Maybe... I think it was initially a 2 but it has just enough of that existentialist jive that one wants in their New Wave French movies. It will grow with viewings, as well.

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