走出家門,雨粉,濕氣很重,走過公園,有草腥的味道,很想啖一口薄荷煙。
腦海閃過一堆單詞,毫無意義地連接著,彷彿有著另一種意思。回到家裡,卻甚麼也想不起來。
才一天,就覺得自己存在得很虛無,很不實在。
還是忙著的好。
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狹小的空間‧幽閉‧寂靜‧無言
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“Cinema is blood, tears, violence, hate, death, and love. And Sirk has made films with blood, with tears, with violence, hate... Sirk has said: you can't make films about things, you can only make films with things, with people, with light, with flowers, with mirrors, with blood, in fact with all the fantastic things which make life worth living.” (Fassbinder)
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