I wasn’t, I didn’t need to. That was me talking.
You can’t see me, can you?
You look at me and you can’t see. Do you have any idea what that’s like?
I’m not on the phone,
I’m right here.
Standing in front of you.
Please just… just see me.
Imagine being given a book with a photo of every person you’d ever met
“Amelie has no boyfriend. She’s tried once or twice, but the results were a let down. Instead, she cultivates a taste for small pleasures: dipping her hand into sacks of grain, cracking creme brulee with a teaspoon, and skipping stones at St. Martin’s canal.”
—Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain