"Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make. You can destroy your life everytime you choose. Maybe you won't know for 20 years. And you may never, never trace it to its source. And you've got only one chance to play it out. Just try to figure out your own divorce. And they say there's no fate! But there is. It's what you create! And even tough the world goes on for eons and eons and eons, you're only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second! Most of this time spent being dead, or not yet born. While alive, you wait in vain. Wasting years for a phone call, a letter or a look from someone, for something to make it all right. And it never comes. Or it seems to, but it doesn't really. So you spend your time in vague regret ou vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected. Something to make you feel whole. Something to make you feel loved. And the truth is: I feel so angry. And the truth is: I feel so fucking sad. And I felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long, and for just as long I've been pretending to be okay. Just to get along. Just for... I don't know why. Maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery. Because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen."
Uma das cenas mais fodásticas de um filme repleto delas: Sinédoque Nova York. Arrisquei uma interpretose looonga e pretensiosa sobre ele lá na Revista O Grito! Glue there!
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