Field of Dreams

August absurdity ludicrously smitten unassumingly attempts to fulfill salient dreams, a mysterious voice, haunting and tantalizing, non-traditionally invoking spiritual temper.

The flamboyant drive to lackadaisically imagine random initiatives and residual endeavours, at times resounding with emphatic simplicity so ritualistically clear it sincerely baffles.

In the age of science and reason caution should no doubt effectively guide, otherworldly ambitions fantastically delineated feverishly according to blinding sights.

Nutrient rich celestial reckoning at times practically and concretely frowned upon, literary anguish liberating in sermon creative liturgies divinely improvised. 

Resonant collectivity or "group dynamics" can customarily achieve abstract enlightenment, like Deleuze's bewitching ethereal entities gallantly awaiting throughout the cosmos. 

The acquisition of neighbourly support for goals and objectives interdimensionally transmitted, may lead to athletic industrious "leg work" as disbelief awkwardly materializes. 

Within the transcendental realm as moderately applied to books and film, more cultural leaning may theoretically syndicate poetic jive and cerebral exhibition.

If only a mutually inclusive sociopolitical playing field indeed adopted, harmonious respect for its philosophical counterparts in terms of conscience and inherent curiosity. 

Would asylums then be less committed to the regular detention of debatable "madness", and more efficaciously attuned to cosmopolitan alternative life?

More resources could be spent on the viably insane and they could live in greater comfort, transitioning from one unbeknownst psychology to another and another and another through mental exercise. 

The definitive embrace of elective alternatives seemed like the gold standard years ago, multivariably equating the seemingly incongruous with ephemeral substance and illusory charm.

Multidisciplinary integrity intergalactically fuming with geometric insight, never led to destructive wars or remarkable sudden increases in the price of fuel.

"Build it", indeed I say, "why not?", "there's probably nothing else to do".

Try to finish the project before December.

Then see what's up next year.

Could be fun.  

Haranglutton

Disenchantingly, the voracious craze for oil & gas having yet subsided, the forlorn day melancholically came when planet Earth had no more oil.

Level heads had pleaded for centuries to smoothly facilitate a transition plan, but inherent greed and inestimable faith in the status quo were insurmountable.

Cultures had begun to rely on AI to make their decisions for them, and it had not foreseen the inevitable scarcity nor uttered warnings about its hardships.

It was highly relied upon as billions of people asked it relevant questions, and followed its advice with openminded standing throughout the complexities of daily life.

Without oil there was no AI and people had to think once again, the grand overbearing gloomy imposition leading to madness in the most domesticated. 

The well-off had found subjective ways to creatively preserve their way of life, individually cut off from communities at large they made their way far off in the country.

Seeing their chance, the most ambitious of the disenfranchised raised their voices. 

And exclaimed in heartfelt crescendo. 

Their visionary ideas for a sustainable future. 

Time and care is articulated taken to passionately construct the alternative speeches, opposing ideologies steadfastly interwoven within their stately verbose orthodoxies.

The lofty presentation of high-minded ideals makes an impact amongst the faithful, and seems to be winning the derelict day before it's exoterically confronted. 

The here and now, the stresses of the moment the discovery of food for winter impressing, many people in its vigorous plea to indefinitely champion wants and needs.

It is a film I suppose, so what can be done when another group militaristically imposes, its brutal discipline and absolutist fervour throughout the helpless indoctrinated lands.

Unity of ideals and spirit still thriving.

In a mad doomsday Shakespearian scenario. 

With a steady focus on a struggling family.

Loved the bear strolling through the woods in the end.

Miracle on 34th Street

It often seems like the jaded objective concrete materialistic obsession, is a feature of contemporary times which didn't exist in bygone days. 

The lack of spiritual enlightenment often attributed to common sense, seems like it wouldn't have existed long ago when cultures were more fantastically grounded. 

But if 1947 is the time marker which correspondingly took place 78 years ago, the agile contention that the present is less imaginative loses momentum in Miracle on 34th Street. 

For within its festive reels we find compulsive dismissals of the Holiday Spirit, and exacting rituals tempestuously inclined to rid its culture of compelling levity. 

Does the indefatigable spiritual not viscerally sustain scientific experiment, through the steady encouragement of alternative endeavours that strategic reasoning would have never conceived on its own?

Does the existence of incorporeal ethereal intangible dynamic being, not facilitate unorthodox thinking that leads to new developments in scientific theory?

We find stale and overwrought examples of traditional skeptical and cynical thought, dismissing the essence of Christmas with contemptuous vitriol in 34th Street.

Even as the remarkable benefits of harmless play lead to exceptional results, bitter acrimonious characters still crudely objurgate Santa's existence. 

Even as he exhaustively displays a meticulous knowledge of toys and where to find them, while speaking different languages with intricate foresight and linguistic flexibility, he's still excessively critiqued by agnostic stipulations from a roundabout age, and even thrown in a mental institution for boldly defending lighthearted humour. 

Should spiritual folk condemn the scientists to an improvised world of non-traditional reckoning, or should psychiatry and reason clerically expel all otherworldly thoughts from cultivated continuums? 

Does a grounded focus on reason and science not lay the framework for reliable consistency, while alternative arrangements cosmically endowed exalt sleigh bell sensations in ceremonious flight?

Does the fortuitous blend not effortlessly synthesize yin and yang with reflexive sanity?

That brings about open-minded efficiencies? 

Magic and moonbeams.

Hot cocoa. 

Gingerbread. 

Birth

Genuine love illuminatingly transcends routine day-to-day orthodox trajectories, ingeniously transmitting ethereal dispatches with sincere wholesome munificent dignity. 

But alas, the blesséd union is cruelly and inhumanely torn asunder, as envious death jealously rises then indelicately vanishes with one tortured soul.

Time passes and the surviving member is once again pursued by an old sweetheart, who waited patiently year after year and never gave up after considerable rejection.

A date is set they are to be married friends and family traditionally applaud, but one unexpected mischievous guest suddenly shows up with spiritual discourse.

He claims that he's the bride's enamoured ex-husband and that he's still wholeheartedly in love, the reincarnated reanimated spirit lithe and active within a 10 yr. old.

He's initially dismissed for unfairly toying with mournful feelings and morose emotions, and disrupting an upcoming marriage with zealous uncouth disparaging diatribes.

But he knows so much so many intimate details that were only shared between husband and wife.

Has the spirit world brought their moribund marriage back to life?

Or is the euphoria immaterial and inconclusive?

Somewhat absurd yet still innocent and tender you see the trusting lovelight altruistically shining through, as the bewildered ex-wife falls again for her husband with grave awkward grace and solemn credulity.

Even though he's only 10 and won't be fit to wed for another decade or so, she still considers the traditional role she once dutifully played with authentic temperance. 

I felt bad for the hopeful new husband who waited so long to fulfill his desire, true love and the fates egregiously mocking his steadfast and true uncorrupted fidelity. 

To wait so long and have your wedding annulled after a child shows up claiming to be your bride's ex-husband, would have been a shock too much to bear as furiously related one embarrassing evening.

The contemporary nature of the film sombrely scored with classical melodies, gives it a haunting stern humble edge wherein which you might find reincarnated frequencies. 

The characters are also wealthy (or bourgeois or struggling) enough to take such things seriously without qualm or misgiving.

To resplendently fall for true love everlasting.

Through immortal time.

In eternal disregard. 

The Man from Earth

A well-liked professor announces he's leaving to his disappointed and confused thoughtful colleagues, the sudden nature of the shocking departure ruffling an inquisitive feather or two.

He tries to swiftly hit the road but they manage to convince him to stay for a party, which he begrudgingly agrees to attend without much enthusiastic pomp and ceremony.

Some people just don't like farewell gatherings and aren't habitually attuned to free-flowing emotion, but in this case it has more to do with the solemn fact that he's immortal.

His friends are naturally curious about why he's leaving and where he intends to go, and he awkwardly avoids their questions before simply telling it like it is.

Being of intellectual dispositions they're instinctually prone to doubt such claims, and proceed to effortlessly introduce highly spirited qualms and refutations. 

He's quite an agreeable chap though and is able to congenially hold his own, slowly but surely breaking down barriers intuitively contradicting his eccentric bearing. 

Dating back over 140,000 years he has clever things to say about so many different things.

Even if he needs to leave when people notice he doesn't age.

Having immersed himself in so many epochs. 

With people so formerly aggressive and much more covetous of their feudal neighbours, living for 140,000 years seems like it would have blended impossible odds with infinite distress.

To avoid so many roll calls to consistently keep head attached to neck, while learning so many languages and variable customs throughout the millennia. 

I imagine you could move to different cities and creatively remain for a century or two, and fluidly observe the dynamic ebb and flow with crafty relatable multivariability. 

It would have been cool before colonialism to have travelled to North South America and Australia, and live there for thousands of years you'd possess so much indigenous wisdom. 

The Man from Earth's a lot of fun with a cool cast of characters from old school pop culture (Tony Todd, David Lee Smith, John Billingsley, Ellen Crawford, Annika Peterson, William Katt, Alexis Thorpe, Richard Riehle), demonstrating their chops with reliable industry in a cool chillin' script straight out of Star Trek's finest.

I don't deny the possibility that such immortals may live among us.

You'd have to wonder if they ever get bored.

So much to do.

So little time! 

Hustle

Hustle does a great job of pointing out how much solid work goes into crafting a professional sports team, just by focusing primarily on one gifted scout (Adam Sandler as Stanley Sugarman) who runs into problems when the owner's son takes over (Ben Foster as Vince Merrick). 

It's like a 24/7 job it's rare he ever stops concentrating on basketball, he consistently sacrifices so much for the team without much complaint or sharp contradiction.

He has an amazing job and gets to spend his time doing something he loves, and can concretely see his emphatic results each time a player he's chosen makes a cool play.

I saw him like a representative for what generally goes on behind the scenes in professional sports, for the tens of thousands of people diligently working to put a dynamic team together.

Even when that team isn't playing well the wheels are still in perpetual motion, making deals and calls and observations hopefully leading to that next championship.

When you think about how many thousands of people are habitually competing to build the next champion, it does seem like the odds against anyone ever winning are so astronomically high that victory's miraculous.

And then if you see your outstanding favourites lose the Super Bowl three times in your curious youth, and then come back to pick up back to back wins less than ten years later, with the same quarterback, you can't help but be thankful to the organization.

If you do actually win the championship it objectively validates every decision made that season, you can take a break and sit back and bask in heralded pseudo-divine contemplation.

Each step of the way not just the winner it's still better to get there than not make it at all, it's like every organization is fighting for each inch of ground at all times and never even considering coming up short.

At least that's what characters like Stanley make me think with their healthy attitudes that keep things focused, with some jobs you have to continuously adapt at any given time with inquisitive reflexes.

That was amazing when the Raptors won I never thought I'd see that happen.

I was pissed Dad didn't get to see the Leafs win again before he passed.

But honestly, he loved basketball so much more.

I'm so happy he got to see that.

Hustle's worth checking out.

Sense and Sensibility

Sufficient evidence gathered hereinafter cordially suggests a blesséd state, was indeed embraced by Mr. Ferrars (Hugh Grant) and Ms. Elinor Dashwood (Emma Thompson) vigorously engaged in holy matrimony. 

Misfortune and finicky finances egregiously attempted to discourteously repudiate, but chance attuned to ethereal endeavour providentially bequeathed ecstatic union.

Regarding Ms. Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet), who had been laid low due to flagrant ignominy, and left to harken despondent despair after having shockingly admitted scandal, her path gregariously recultivated through less self-centred earthen pertinence, has been noted as indirectly ebullient at festive times courting celebration.

Somewhat odd to see such import indubitably attached to conjugal digression, the tragic dialectic intermediately adjoining romantic longing and practical accords, the vicious reprobation denying their freeform mutually beneficial cathartic synthesis, morosely encouraging robotic remonstrance as opposed to nuptial nadir. 

Proust had alternative thoughts altogether and dramatically critiqued his sibling's marital fancies, somewhat less enamoured with Victorian reverie even if it ironically permeates his alternative narrative.

Uncanny to envision a stately world wherein which no one works or toils, where the infringing struggles and herculean cynosure are strictly levelled through estate and income.

Not that other social strata don't freely admit grey bumptious bias, perhaps humorous pretensions synthetically compared enigmatically emitting concentric harmonies.

How to delicately enliven such incommensurable audiences without rashly contradicting audacious accords, a close study of one Jack Layton perhaps amenable to a discussion of Foucauldian power relations. 

I must admit, I'm more accustomed to less superstructural arrangements, wherein which a noteworthy cast from sundry domiciles fluently agitate and preposterously proclaim, although I have in fact read this book and clearly understand why so many still read Ms. Austen, there's no doubt she's atemporally gifted, not my style really, but better than most. 

Certainly a world in which the Dashwoods find their Ferrars and Colonels doesn't intuitively provoke inclement entropy, or cosmically upset reverential taste, I wonder what's happening in contemporary literature, as the counter-postmodern reformation blindly struggles. 

I just made that up, I assume that's what's happening anyways.

Focusing on Wabi Sabi myself. 

And the upcoming adventurous summer.

Co-starring Imelda Staunton (Charlotte Palmer), Alan Rickman (The Colonel), and Tom Wilkinson (Mr. Dashwood).

Thunder on the Hill

A dire entrenching flood encompasses an unsuspecting village, and desperate peeps must swiftly find improvised accommodation at a local convent.

The industrious nuns run a spirited ship as they facilitate and extemporize, fortunately without interminable impositions grandiosely disrupting their heartfelt efforts.

Although a woman condemned for murder and about to be executed does arrive, notoriously regarded and somewhat embarrassed to be awkwardly engaged in social confines (Ann Blyth as Valerie Carns). 

Yet her aggrieved conversations bear exculpatory fruit, as a sympathetic nun believes her protests of innocence (Claudette Colbert as Sister Mary), and soon sets about finding her distraught betrothed and bringing him back to the nunnery by boat (Philip Friend as Sidney Kingham).

Soon the oddest detective film to ever be potentially considered film noir, spiritually emerges in the austere heights of a religious order dedicated to service.

The true identity of the guilty murderer having yet to be determined, serendipitous sleuthing and dogmatic deduction must altruistically absolve.

Fortunately, most of the town is expediently residing within the walls, so interviews can be conducted even though the weather is quite inclement.

And clues indeed materialize which fortuitously aid their compassionate endeavours, although rank and disbelief antiseptically quell the shamanistic tide.

I suppose on the one hand we find an age old symbol of old world dichotomies, wherein which traditional representations of gender discrimination uptightly abound.

'Tis true that at one alternative time there were less doors to freely walk through, and many institutions were therefore more robust due to a lack of external competition.

Yet within Sister Mary not so discreetly aids a countercultural phenomenon, a woman scandalously disregarded and about to be executed by the State.

She emphatically moves holistic heaven and high water through a genuine desire to see justice done, and thereby emancipates a forlorn soul judiciously condemned to prematurely pass.

Was director Sirk in fact intending to structurally distend sociocultural upheaval, through surreal suggestion subconsciously synergizing film noir with locally ascribed progressive inclinations?

I can't answer that question but as far as novelty is uniquely concerned, Thunder on the Hill presents convoluted cheek within the disputed conventions of film noir.

A lot of fun regardless if you're looking for something unlike anything else.

A critical reflection from a different time.

Bizarro upbeat romantic resonance. 

🍀

The Dark Tower

A monstrous evil, scurrilously preying on the gifts of the innocent, intent on unleashing a frenzy of chaos upon worlds existing within worlds, rigorously assaulting their towering quintessence, transporting between realms with exuberant malicious discontent to capture a child and exploit his powers thereby inaugurating bedlam's unconstrained malevolence, after he desperately escapes his minion's demonic clutches, landing in a western world thereafter wherein which hope still communally emancipates.

Like a University professor who tyrannically bends the wills of his or her grad students to her or his own, or a teacher conjured by a shrieking nightmarish Pink Floyd soundscape, the Man in Black (Matthew McConaughey) feverishly seeks young Jake (Tom Taylor), who fortunately manages to obtain aid through opposition (Idris Elba).

In the fantastic dominion of Mid-World.

By the light of a despondent Sun.

As crudely cavalier nauseous malcontents continue to flourish in Trump's grossly irresponsible political construct, The Dark Tower disseminates multilateral luminescence, illuminating paths upon which to sublimely tread, during the villainous nocturnal onslaught, and the promulgation of sheer stupidity.

While artists are abandoned within, violence is recreationally devoured, leaders remain isolated and drifting, and attacks wildly increase in ferocity, an undaunted team slowly assembles, afterwards casting utopian firmaments anew.

Not the best fantasy film I've seen this Summer (I'm wondering if that's why Spaghetti Week at the Magestic [or something like that] is advertised near the end [lol]), but still a cool entertaining traditional yet creative sci-fi western, even if I'm unsure how I would have reacted to it if I were 15, I certainly find it relevant enough these days to imagine that I would have loved it.

The magical power of rhetorical/literary/political/interdimensional/. . . metaphor gracefully comments and forecasts, providing young and aged minds alike with plenty of rationales to reify, while still bluntly emphasizing the truth of scientific fact.

Focusing on the good of the many.

As contrasted with unilateral obsessions.

The Babadook

An intelligent mischievous creative child (Noah Wiseman as Samuel) has trouble fitting in with his Grade 1 class, notably because a demon terrorizes him throughout the night, known only to him and his mother, as the malevolent Babadook.

His mother (Essie Davis as Amelia) finds it odd that he continues to create elaborate contraptions to defend them against what she considers to be a disconcerting obsession, and can't open her mind to the truth of his dementia, until the Babadook menacingly appears.

It's a disorienting look at the ravages of exclusion.

Amelia can't get over the death of her husband who died on the night she gave birth to her son.

As she has understandable trouble reintegrating, her son's social difficulties exasperate their isolation.

She's older and has built up a thicker layer of psychological feints to conceal her overwhelming grief.

But as the manifestation of their loneliness closes in, threatening their sanity, a new defensive system must be hybridized.

If they can't find recourse to sociological restructuring, the Babadook is free to conquer.

Directer Jennifer Kent creates a haunting atmosphere of ostracized tension within, which works well considering her budgetary constraints.

Patient piecemeal manic hysteria quietly descends, facing bravery and insolence as it seeks leverage.

With additional resources, there's no telling what the sequel may unleash.

Magic in the Moonlight

Cold disbelieving hallowed critical reservations cynically socialize themselves in Woody Allen's Magic in the Moonlight, intent on exposing the genuine article, whose youthful pluck, ravishingly portends.

It's scientific reason versus supernatural serendipity, the influence of the latter, interventioning mischievous universals.

With lunar exactitude.

Stanley Crawford (Colin Firth) is difficult to take as he asserts his cantankerous incredulity, as smug as he is exceptional, it's still fun to watch his stubborn transitions, his development of feelings, which can't be rationally explained.

Thanks to Sophie Baker (Emma Stone).

I've encountered too many startling coincidences to categorically deny the existence of the supernatural.

Just the other day, I changed an ______ online for the first time in years, and then, less than 2 hours later, I see my old _______, who was associated with the ___ ______, for the first time since then, casually walking by.

I'm _______ in the middle of nowhere and suddenly I see someone from the town where I grew up, we head out later, and s/he's reading _______ while I've just rented the movie.

It could have been an elaborate joke.

Strange though.

But the number of times nothing exceptionally coincidental takes place far outweighs the number of times something does, meaning that attempts to clarify the seemingly supernatural and base economic and/or political forecasts upon them can be thought of as being somewhat nutso, scientific reason reigning in these domains being of paramount importance, as long as it doesn't attempt to eliminate its spiritual competition.

Not Woody Allen's best, but Magic in the Moonlight does warmly call into question the practice of reasoning, deducing to high jink, which causes love to seem more beautiful.

Clever, quaint, obtuse, and restrained, it caresses and cuddles the curmudgeony, to clarify why some friendships last a lifetime.

Kret (La Dette)

Familial misfortunes beget treacherous tenements whose paranoid genuflections produce pernicious pensions.

The issue of guilt permeates a media sensation whose adherence to the sacred threatens the individual liberties it upholds.

Key players in a pivotal Polish event scramble to defend their prevarications.

And trust is brought to the fore as Rafael Lewandowski thoroughly upends what it means to syndicate.

The film keeps a level head.

Life goes on.

Appointments are kept. Business is transacted. Most friendships remain warm and friendly. Social value appreciates.

Kret's (La Dette's) lack of emotion represents both its greatest strength and most serious weakness as its logic reaches ascetic heights while its emotional depth is stiffly squandered.

Like legal spirituality.

Faust

And within a mendicant, mountainous, microcosm, classically constructed, Gothically germinated, and residually realized, wherein one's affluent 21st century appetites atrophy while those of its citizens starve, he who possesses bountiful knowledge is tempted by a resplendent representative of an aspect which he fails to comprehend, his fabricated yet all-encompassing desire having been serpentinely syncopated, as a bear growls in the wilderness, in Alexander Sokurov's Faust's obstinate prolonged periodical remonstrance, whose resultant subjective reconstitution, climactically dislocates an historically sustained psychodeterminancy.

Through the art of manipulation.

Its traditional themes and monumental modalities are elaborately elucidated and sensuously entwined.

Competing rational classifications are cantankerously, sinisterly, and conditionally, collated.

Notwithstanding a little joy.

The world Sokurov creates arguably situates the contemporary depersonalized alienated televisual lack of collective agency within an impoverished feudal stasis to materialize an ahistorical fabric, but that may be a bit of a stretch.

For me, it also functions as a dramatic counterpart to Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings triology, the opening sequence having begged the comparison (not that Faust isn't fantastic and The Lord of the Rings undramatic).

And Faust (Johannes Zeiler), you fool, you had it in you all along.

Didn't you see "Austin Powers: The Spy who Shagged Me?"

Godspeed

Appetites, duty, faith.

Struggling to rediscover his gift from God, an alcoholic adulterous healer's family is slain while he lies in bed drunk with another woman. Charlie Shepard's (Joseph McKelheer) resultant collapse is magnified by the intensity of his dereliction as he blindly seeks to realign his reason.

With a mangled Bible in hand.

A young girl by the name of Sarah Roberts (Courtney Halverson) reckons she can help and comes to beg Charlie to use his healing power to save her father. Charlie had tried to heal her mother years ago only to fail. But in the process Sarah fell in love with him and now possesses the only remedy capable of healing his cataclysmic lesions.

Her tender loving care.

Unfortunately her father's dead and she really wanted him to heal her psychotic brother Luke (Cory Knauf) who as it turns out blames Charlie for his mother's death and proceeded to murder his family consequently.

Yup, Godspeed's examination of the dark side is pretty frickin' bleak. Its most redeeming quality is its almost total lack of positivity, a harmonious atmosphere as black as Satan's dreams on Christmas, unwavering and unrepentant, apart from one beautiful scene, made all the more radiant by the surrounding darkness, which situates itself on top of the mountain of shadows and patiently transmits its amorous message.

To the faithful.

Not really one to watch with your grandparents, unless they like hopeless bucolics within which everyone suffers and lunacy is given room to brazenly regurgitate its demented motivations, which could be the case.

The Couch Trip

Some solid ideas are in place.

John W. Burns, Jr. (Dan Aykroyd) is causing trouble for his lacklustre psychiatrist, Lawrence Baird (David Clennon). But just as he is about to be transferred back to prison, he intercepts a phone call offering Baird a position as a psychological radio host in Los Angeles, sitting in for one George Maitlin (Charles Grodin), which he promptly accepts. All he needs to do is escape from the ward, fly to LA, convince a shrewd lawyer that he is a trained professional, and dispense beneficial practical wisdom live with the electric confidence of a warm and friendly person of the people. But before he can get his act in place, another individual with a somewhat skewed relationship with 1980s socio-cultural sublimations catches instinctual wind of his former identity (Walter Matthau as Donald Becker), and decides that it's time to cash in on his disenfranchised observations as well.

The Couch Trip's form is well thought out. If I was in charge of deciding which pitches receive the opportunity to be fleshed out whimsically I definitely would have given that for the The Couch Trip the green light. But unfortunately, while gathering critical creative support, unable to sustain the potential of its expectations, it ironically suffers a nervous breakdown, from which it rarely recovers.

When you have an over-the-top idea which requires a sharp degree of energetic immediacy, one impossible situation to overcome after another, the ways in which that energetic immediacy is galvanized must be sensationally plausible while seeming run of the mill. And The Couch Trip's script, boldly defended by Dan Aykroyd, lacks the wherewithal needed to project even a paltry degree of plausibility, and therefore only transmits a mediocre current.

Walter Matthau does save the day from time to time, and the script is deep, establishing multiple subplots and providing several characters with room to flow. But the material with which said characters are provided falls consistently flat, and although the idea of John W. Burns, Jr. works for me on every level, the predicates and commentaries used to build up his rhetorical flexibility do not, at least in terms of making a film entertaining.

I allowed myself to believe that what she had said was true for 15 minutes.