Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?
Filme fodástico…
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines,...
CARALHO! PENSEI NISSO (NO FILME E EM NÃO SER ESTE CARA “PADRÃO” DA TV E MÁQUINA DE LAVAR) ONTEM! IRADO VIR ESTA FOTO ATÉ...
i watched this movie two weeks ago at CINEMARISE, shibuya
One is Ten by FAT Koehl
Koehl not only designed the building but, together with...
- gray scale (by liivia s)
Good Morning
Chico Buarque, 1979.