We live in a reality made up of fictions. Build mirrors that can give us other images, giving a more secure way to our fears, our inabilities, our frustrations, our desires always dissatisfied. And they looked at each other in rituals of searches never satiated, the illusion of exploring all in so many parts. We are made of these many fictions, characters we explain how we describe as films, we find ourselves borrowing gestures and tones. What border separates fact from fiction? "Fuzzy, no?
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