bíómyndir

If you saw and understood Lost in Translation, then you probably understand it. If you hated it and didn't see the point of it, you probably won't. It's those odd, arrested, interrupted friendships. Long friendships that feel like you are seeing them on ancient, cracked celluloid where you can see the frames flashing by and the black bands between them. Only the strange magic of our eyes and brains summons from this flickering the perception of motion, of narrative.

Sitting by a friend of this sort (one with black streaks of blankness streaking through him), having lifted the last glass and smiled across the table at your other tippling mates, you can feel that he has, simultaneously with you, hit that part of the evening when all the sadness in your life climbs up onto your shoulders and curls around your neck like a cat, a mink, an ermine.

You look at him and he looks at you and you both say your goodbyes to the others and walk off to the train. He is going east and you are going west, and so you part ways where the platforms diverge.