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I was once waiting a very long time - centered in a continuously cinematic courtship of the same 'ol, same 'ol - to really... swallow some salt, and in single moment, it happened; it suddenly occurred in a film I hadn't expected it to belong to. "Mr. Brooks" was far from extraordinary - from its diluted devices, or minute mechanisms, to its over-the-top, old-fashioned surprises. Then, the ending arrived, aiming to arm my senses with any distinction it might have, at any point, failed to deliver 90 minutes before. The song was by The Veils, and it struck these senses with an extremely sharp message (what exactly remains uncertain). I'd rarely felt the theater treat me so enormously. I thought my body belonged to the wings of some beautiful butterfly. I had a ridiculously free form of flight, emotionally. I love when the wait turns into something that rewarding. It's powerful stuff.
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"Pork the pain past the point of pleasure; pen piss on a pink paw, for peace pours plain."