saturday night, i stop watching every man for himself, annoyed with myself forgetting i watched it before annoyed, christ the godard annoys hell out of me sometimes, smug auteur.
i don't blame him, after all he's the auteur, and i'm the annoyed, he doesn't care, he doesn't have to win my audience. i do it to myself. 
what i meant to say is i turned in sleep to kiss your pillow, thinking you were on it, and my blue boat sails in concrete.