Oddly stressful dreams of wandering supermarket aisles looking for the new AI-powered chocolate.
Ah yes, bin day tomorrow, announces the unexpectedly windy night.
Sufficient moody rain to summon a Batman.
Tiny snow falling thickly.
The impotent hard ting of icy rain when already snuggly immune.
Also, Bill Pullman moves himself around as though powered by supermarionation, and I in no way mean that as an insult.
100% did not remember Richard Pryor or Marilyn Manson being in that film… feels like entirely distinct eras overlapping.
Lynch’s Lost Highway, a darkened room, a wintry evening.
A non-zero chance my sanity won’t hold.
The little section of my back garden that the birds routinely attack also appears to retain snow after a melt.
It’s not really snowing, more raining directly into ice.
Another day of accidentally making myself a nice cup of steamed milk instead of actual coffee…
When you know before opening the blinds that there’s been snow overnight from the increase in reflected light.
There may be a point where an absurd lack of physical dexterity becomes life threatening.
Just folded close and sealed up a package and now blood is streaming from both of my hands despite them interacting with nothing but cardboard.
It’s so unseasonably bright and mild that I’m already being peer-pressured into cutting the grass by the sound of other people’s lawnmowers.
Rewatching Columbo and every male lead has a voice that sounds like it actively hurts to use.
(Other than Severance)
I think Andor may have broken all other TV sci-fi for me.
The blandly grey days between two winters, a Northern Irish tale.
(Except the bit in the middle when it’s briefly too bright to see)
That slightly dazed level of tiredness when your eyes start to snag on things; you’re not looking quite where you intended, just somewhere along the way, stopped at something too visually heavy to get all the way past. Sometimes mid conversation.