In the Mood for Love by Wong Kar-Wai

By the end, we expect to be restored, but they don't take part in that farce. We aren't let go that easily. They part from it, depart to an elsewhere, and disassemble us into parts. Our itineraries briefly collapse and we are left looking for a resolution.

The reds fill the room and spill out at us before we reach the room. A sleazed shot moves through them to the cello's bravado and suddenly we can't tell forwards from backward. We can hear it and see it, but it is forked at best and fragmented at worst. Sound and sight are thesis and antithesis here, not synthesis. We cannot put ourselves together in this. To be in the room is to have our temporal and semiotic horizons disassembled.

The rain forms a path. We follow it and ingress toward a partiality. As we flow in and out of Nat King Cole, it becomes hard to push this aside and become disentangled. We are affected. Our senses lose composure and we lose a bit of self-possession. Wong Kar-Wai leaves us fragmented, and we are left learning to pull it all together somehow.