Tony Leung dissociating in public spaces with a crippling nicotine addiction, he jus like me fr

Water and blood, booze and sweat, mud, muck and mire, piss and paint; drowning in a miscible solution of economy, succumbing altogether to the detritic pool of emiction forming at the feet of brigands, mafiosi by necessity, navigating an unyielding existence. Right and wrong replaced with need—no more concepts. Wanting more of this transient life but settling for that which you can put your hands on. How did we get here? It happened in a flash, like that. There seem to be no escape routes. All of those liquids, from the essential to the execrable, have been hosed off rigorously and repeatedly, yet still their spoor remains. Some things can’t be washed away.

nosebleed and cigarettes.
ignition of fire, suffocation of paint.

The sensation of falling steeply into the underside of Vietnam's Ho Chi Minh City (formerly known as Saigon) is what writer and director Tran Anh Hung creates with Cyclo, which was the recipient of the Golden Lion at the 52nd Venice International Film Festival. It’s a movie that contains imagery that holds a mysterious and dreamlike quality that underlines Hung’s proficiency in visuals, and he crowds each frame with a disturbance of colour and sound. It lays the foundations for some unsettling eye-catching and abstract images of both its locations and characters which congregate into a creative and affecting feast for the eyes.

No, not the poor fish.

Victims of hapless circumstances 

Entangled within the tendrils of a monstrous metropolis 

Managed by beings just as mournful as them  

Isolated individuals longing for more

Wandering the hustling ‘n bustling streets aimlessly 

Searching for something other than this life

Stranded are they though in this repetitious routine 

As observers and participants in the mundane brutality 

With seemingly no clear routes out;

The only feasible means of escaping it all  

Being but a brief instance of fleeting compassion 

But to hold your breath for this chance is destined to be nothing more, 

Than a simple fools daydream 

We’re all encaged within this world together

But fated to never know one another fully 

As such, life goes on

Scraping by in a city that may as well be your own cyclical hellhole, only to fall deeper into its murkiest depths. You survive one passenger at a time; your back aches. Will it take long before the ugliness and brutality soaked into every crevice of your vicinity finally gets to you like an inevitable virus?

You're cheated out of your means of survival and forced into becoming a disposable pawn by and for people older and far more malicious than you could ever hope to be. It's a slippery slope of desolation drenched in mud, blood, and paint. A resentful dance with flames. A tearful embrace in red. A drunken haze covered in blue. Some stains never completely wash off.

defocused crashcourse, muddy pictured bizarrotrip, reality x poem as hallucinatory festival darling.

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