Duarte Ferreira’s review published on Letterboxd:
whenever I'm around my grandparents -- I live with them, so it's a bit of a constant around here -- and I get to talk them about this something or that, I usually put up the act of an intellectual savant, expert on every tiny thing they're not, constantly waving this quasi-phalic superiority that screeches "out with the old, in the new". whenever I'm around my friends, I drift into this quiet-like faux suaveness, bleeding out of a straighter-then-usual spinal posture and lower timbre that occasionally breaks into this mishmash of chaplinesque dance moves and humor(ful or less, I really don't know) one-or-twoliners as dry as a saharan dune. whenever I'm with someone I recently met, I slither into myself as tiny spotted turtle facing a boa constrictor, occasionally peering out of my shell onto my almost-paralel feet and apologizing for saying sorry too much during the last five or so minutes. whenever I'm alone, I feel myself bleeding from all of these cuts in the back of mind, each slightly-different-colored stream mingling and mixing with one another, a schizoid fountain whose pool contains a putrid cocktail of personal histories, fears and fecal matter.
sometimes I fantasize about shooting myself in the head. not often, but often enough to say "sometimes" instead of "rarely" or "almost never". i go about it exactly as suggested by the name contained in the verb: a straight act of fantasy, something that never really fulfills itself on physical terms. I have no real wish to die, I see plenty around me worth living for. I would just like to know how it feels to have a seering-hot tiny piece of metal whiz by and through your neurons at 360 meters per second, along with pieces of skull of many sizes acting as a tiny shotgun shells, blasting in a cloud of halo red and bone. an imaginary bullet through the brain, a one-frame flash across my eyes, a pure desire of metaphysical rebellion, not against death, but the human mind -- my mind -- and its many selves; a reset to a default state, a cleansing of the pool and its waters.
it can't be done.
Possessor sees this feeling, recognizes it, revels in it, makes it its own, and hands it back to you when it's done toying around with it: more well-formed in its alieness.
Brandon, Brandon... the apple didn't fall far from the tree, I see.