Paul Martel Figments

When I first mentioned Unfaithful on this account many years ago, I had not fully absorbed Adrian Lyne’s emphasis, and the camera’s focus is one which grows fuller over time, even if the script is nothing we haven’t seen before in relation to discontent and betrayal. The exposition truly functions as a literary device, such as when Martinez glances at the knife on his table, briefly considering whether or not he would need it for defense, or the opening wind storm, all of it. We’re being asked why we get set into habits, routines, comforts, and then shatter them for another card in the deck, another card which leads us back to the same interior landscape. Familiarity breeds contempt, and this is what we kill ourselves over when we’re not engaged in killing ourselves due to ideology. Did I get the ending the first time? A pipe dream straight out of Jane Austen’s comedic moral teachings? Not as fully as on a third capture, with the Sumner’s knowledge that the bough was fully splintered, and undone, sitting there at the police station, all that was needed nothing more than a reality crime drama to reenact the reverberating scandal and consequences to follow. But this telescopic focus isn’t reality, so much as an American copy of a French template, something Gere has done before, simply to remind us that perspective, and point of view function like an acid reflux treatment. What was Constance’s trade off? Freedom to breathe, akin to my knowledge that rolling into thin air, away from my hostile building owner, means merely a foreshortening of the inevitable, my work stupidly locked away because I wasn’t careful enough? Didn’t utilize cloud services to best practices? I don’t feel like telephoning Tom Cook, who undoubtedly isn’t going to go out of his way to restore me to my history without feeling inconvenienced.

I just spoke to him and encapsulated the problem. He had another call. Me? I barely have any food, but what difference does that make, as I’m barely eating. Yes, 365 is nice, but I have to relearn some things, and if I do refinance another machine, I’ll have to relearn that, while we’re all busy scoring points, or consoling ourselves through the images of what the perfect bourgeoise life is or isn’t without hunger, tripping through your kitchen in bare feet. Paraplegics may retain ambulatory memories. I never knew them to begin with. He is my age, this Cook. Perhaps I should bathe, throw on a pair of slacks. He may stop by again tomorrow, because my ability to understand telephone voices is in the decline. This I cannot cure, but neither can I compel sources to respond online. I can hear my debt load increase, the one thing which hasn’t changed. Cash registers, storage and retrieval of promissory notes.