A man. An artist. A man so alone and desperate for even a mere echo of imaginary companionship that he scrawls out in his bedsheets the silhouette of a person lying on their side in paint, he then lies down beside it, and there endeth the short. Does the lonesome soul derive some small modicum of comfort from so pitiful an endeavour, or does it only lead to greater heartache and longing? In my naive reliance on the lure of childlike fantasy I half-expect the figure to somehow become real or to embrace him back, but it is not to be in this instance.. I'm a kinda struggling with the words that in my head I am jugglin', because there really isn't much to this short, it is very bound by its simplistic presentation and brief running time, but it does get its meaningful point across and it does it well with powerful classical music and absolutely zero dialogue, I enjoyed what it tries to do. This probably not one of my bes-test ever expressions but it does come from me with all sincerity that everyone who deserves so finds great comfort and joy with somebody that they love and who loves them back. Regards, from the heart.
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