there's something poisonous about being forcibly stuck inside as a person who views creative work as their life's goal; when there's nothing to do but create, your mind starts to eat itself and make you feel bad for not being able to create even more. there's nothing scarier than unrealized potential and the sands of that hourglass aren't going to stop just because the outside world has. even when that potential is realized, then you gotta be afraid that it isn't good enough and that the only thing worse than never having realized that potential, is realizing your potential isn't as good as you'd hoped it was. time is a curse, only made moreso by the meaningless benchmarks we make–…

probably the most damning thing i can say about this is that it's genuinely accomplished and impressive visually. the problem is that this is at odds with the ostensible conceit that we're watching burnham's emotional and creative collapse during the pandemic. there's a lot here that comes off as phony bullshit, but it's the visuals that rankle the most for this reason. a shot of burnham lying on the floor under a blanket amongst the tangles of computer cords and lighting apparatuses is supposed to project desperation and defeat, but he can't help but frame it all ever so perfectly, showing off (not for the only time) how much fancy and expensive equipment he has at his disposal. burnham's compulsion…