Sequestered interstellar impudence botanically inseminating raw delinquent justice.
Claustrophobic encapsulations reanimating grouse grizzled seared begrudged camaraderie fertilizing angst consoled.
Mutaric verse.
Holistic cross-section.
Experimental cortical recalibrated resonance reverberating frontiers jejune meaningless runes.
On the sly, roll out, acculturate, condition, speculative tiers definitively impacted, like an age old feudal grave.
A star.
A quasar.
Something compelling evokes infinite something drastic disillusions hallows.
Past the point of inspiration far beyond exhausted fears, nihilistic contamination endemically engineered.
Chill in the garden. Keep chillin' in the garden. The plants grow, nurture, conserve, bustle. There's a celebration of life inasmuch as it flourishes. Why not dig something, play? Comment? Construct? Observe? Sparrows. Leafy green bouquets. Chomp chomp. Chatter. Stretch.
New birth.
Regenerative life.
Space child infinitesimally engrossed caught up waylaid.
Through no fault of their own were they locked up inside, in test tubes of ambient Jekyll & Hyde, lost in the galaxy stars set adrift, with freedoms inherent, candidly pitched.
Elaborate databases.
Books.
Perhaps.
Monte's (Robert Pattinson) devotion.
Travelling forever through astronomical climes, a unique descriptive vocabulary characterizing understated variation.
Like the Inuit describing snow.
Proust delineating obsession.
Interplanetary lullabies.
Velveteen moons.
Remarkably original unsettling independent sci-fi, creating its own unique codes, as if it was extraterrestrially conceived, born of the abstract candelabra.
Keep an open mind.
And proceed with caution.
Strange film.
Solemn incarcerated imagination.
André Benjamin (Tcherny) stands out.
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