Art does not love you, and cares not your opinion of it.
Art hates the rising of mercury and the clear sense of purpose.
Art is a winding boa forever unable to tie itself in a bow tie,
but always aware of the smell in the room.
That smell is audience.
Parasitic by nature, wise like a lemming, blind as a thrown stone on the surface of a lake.
The lake, that polluted body of undrinkable water, sends its odors from Hollywood all the way to Jerusalem.
We choose grains of sand to stand in for time because we know the weight of timeless things.
We throw pianos from the moon because we believe in abrupt endings.
We use women like chopsticks, and chopsticks like women because we know that neither is perfect to eat food with and that is why we must make films because films will not unmake us.
If they could we would all have video wills buried in the brains of automobile gods strung across garbage fields of dreams.