Insularity used to be such a normal thing: we were all separated from everyone else all of the time, and that was the way things were. Now it seems so odd – at least to me.
Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories never stood still. They experimented. The films don’t do that.
Vinyl formation. Hot glue gun apotheosis. Interminable joy. A frustration in the eyes of the mad man.
I only like certain things, and top threes are about as far as I can get on any given topic.
An explosion; someone gets shot: they fall down a cliff. Action, chaos, shooting.
Is this contrary need of mine to do something I cannot imagine anyone else doing some kind of attention –seeking behaviour?
Perspective is an odd thing. Imagine a shape. From one point of view it is a triangle; from another it is a circle. Two people seeing this shape would fight to the death to defend the view that the other person cannot be right.