“I cannot remember the details of a film I have watched.”
“Oh,” he says. “That is nothing. Movies are a disposable art form.”
I hate this man.
“I am a film critic by profession, as well as by passion,” I say.
IN AN ATTEMPT to improve my state of mind, I wander the streets of New York looking forlorn, as is my way, in order to attract women who might think I’m deep or that I need to be saved, a technique that has not yet proved fruitful but I am confident will. One might think I would have given up on it…
A voice in my head dubs me a failure once again. Is it my own voice? It is too distant to tell. I put the single frame back in its envelope. I am awash with self-loathing. This failure to predict the frame on each side, the other moments, the quantized presentation of Ingo’s world, has led me to th…
In my apartment, I stare through a professional jeweler’s loupe at the single remaining frame of Ingo’s film. I believe I have come upon a brilliant and feasible restoration technique. Using a method of my own devising, based on my understanding of the block universe theory and my vast knowledge of…
[...] I once had a girlfriend who dumped me for a more conventionally successful and conventionally handsome and conventionally decent fellow, and afterward, I would see her car everywhere. But, of course, it was a fairly common make and color, and all cars look the same today anyway (see: my criti…
