My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart.
Words are cold, muddy toads trying to understand sprites dancing in a field-but they're all we have.
All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.
Can there be any happiness greater than the happiness of salvation?
As much as I love movies, it would be presumptuous of me to think that I know how to make one.