A rare incident in contemporary television, I just saw an interesting documentary on Juliette Binoche, shown as a sort of addendum to the elevating Chocolat. I have an envious, but great admiration for that fixation on creating, the will to bravely parry and riposte the catastrophe of death/nothingness. I feel like I've been failing miserably in this regard for the past months, having descended into ληθαργία in the age of redundance where everyone wants to be seen and appreciated. I can only hope that brighter days will follow and I regain some courage to write again. Off now to play a bit of Dark Souls, in which I will die frequently, in some way relieving death of its weight.
Let me tell you what bugs me of the human endeavour. I've never been a human in question, have you? Mankind went to the moon, I don't even know where Grimsby is. Forget progress by proxy. Land on your own moon. It's no longer about what they can achieve, out there on your behalf, but what we can experience, up here and of our own time--and it's called mental wealth.