Then I remembered my mother who just passed. And I still couldn’t subtitle my grief.
Then I felt like interrupting something: my ever spiraling subtext, splicing in sound of someone riding a motorcycle going somewhere. Just for rhythm.
The ending, juxtaposing it with the news of the journalist killed, is a cop-out because I didn’t know how to make an ending.
So see you again. I miss you, Mama. How does it all unfold from your eyes?