i’m envious of people who can eloquently dissect the complexities of their thoughts and draw on a deep well of learned knowledge, composing film reviews that read like poetry. but something about meshes of the afternoon has led me realise that it doesn’t matter. pretty films beget pretty words. truthfully, we’re all trapped in the confines of our own minds, like the woman trapped in her dreams, so besieged by imagery and metaphor that all we can do is wage…

back in 2007 i stumbled on the night watch by sergei lukyanenko in a bookshop and it was such an unexpected gem. time has blurred my memories of the story, but i the experience and this was just the right blend of urban fantasy and soviet arcana. a rich world stitched together like a tapestry woven from flickering lights and industrial shadow, everything in night watch feels scavenged from the decay of a crumbling tower block. it's brimming with…

in the strangest of interludes i watched this between the mechanical churn of writing tech articles for students as part of my job and… oddly… it felt like perfect symmetry. a film that unspools the mechanism of the soul, the descent into primal consciousness and dissection of emotion into sterile chemical counterparts. what are we if not impulses of the flesh, of the mind?

it’s true that denying ourselves, analysing our longing, distilling grief into data, does nothing but…