Beach

FRANCOISE : One night I will get the perfect photograph.

She presses the cable release.

FRANCOISE : Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six.

She lets the shutter close.

FRANCOISE : Take a look.

Richard leans over and squints down the viewfinder.

The sky is framed. Francoise leans into the frame.

Richard draws back.

RICHARD : You realize that in the eternity of space, there is a planet,
just like this one, where you are photographing back towards us.
You're photographing yourself.

FRANCOISE : Incredible

RICHARD : There are infinite worlds out there, where anything that can happen does happen.

FRANCOISE : So on one you are rich, on another poor. On one you are a murderer, on another the victim.

RICHARD : Exactly

FRANCOISE : Richard, you know something -

She hands him the cable release while she adjusts the camera.

FRANCOISE : That is just the kind of pretentious bullshit that Englishmen and Americans always say to French girls so that they can sleep with them.

RICHARD : Sorry. I thought I was doing quite well.

FRANCOISE : It's just the sky, Richard.


She presses his thumb down on the cable release, her hand around his.

FRANCOISE : Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept…

EXT. NIGHT. SKY.

Francoise voice fades away over an image of the night sky.

Time lapse: the sky rapidly changes to day.

RICHARD (Voice Over) : When you develop an infatuation for someone, you always find a reason to believe that this is exactly the person for you. It doesn't need to be a good reason, a bad one will do just as well. Taking photographs of the night sky, for example: in the long run that's just the kind of dumb irritating habit that would cause you to split up. But at the time - it's the charming eccentricity you've been searching for all these years.

Suggested read : Beach , the script

Suggested rythm: Goodbye blue sky, Pink Floyd

Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Suggested read : Neruda,Pablo

Suggested rythm: R.D. , Kishore - Hamein Tumse Pyar Kitna - what else

Regime de Vivre

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.

Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage.
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.

Suggested read : Lord John Wilmot

Suggested rythm: Eric Clapton - Cocaine