We may be far from the genre's heyday, still it is clear to me that "The Frozen Ground" diffuses the whiff of a grim and dreary catatonia, so frequently encountered in the masterpieces tagged under the serial killer onomatopoeia.
Nicolas Cage stars as the morally integral state trooper
Do you ever consider becoming a fish? It only takes a gill of saltwater in your memory and your lungs, switching to a pair of gills. The rest, remains the same. You smell, you feel, you love or hate. It's just that you lack the memory of all! I guess, that's the way guilt or pain flows to oblivion... ... And i'm now, too old to repent and too soft to endure. I just need to breath... again.
Portrait of Evelyn Brent by Charles Gates Sheldon c.1928
Time fetches the seeds of our primal retribution. I know i can conjure the ink of his fester. All i need to do is adorn his wrath with the only vein, that's left feeding my heart. The one blessed with your terminal tear, the tear you gave me the moment my spear pierced the very edge of your soul. Then, we will be together again... till all seas of sorrow run dry.
A long lost agony, ensnared Mina's tantrum. For Mina loathed what light brings forth: Eternity and desire.
She was living for the moment, encapsulated inside a splinter of instant dichotomy, caused by the alienation of the senses.
A dark mind is not an insane mind rather than one that has lost the ability to experience the momentum in sensationalism. It is a bog, filled with the filth of inertia. A sensuous mutation that twists the ability to identify the source of the stimulation.
Darkness was not the source of her fears nor death itself. They were just by- products. Mina dreaded Time!
Time as an undisclosed factor of guilt, while savoring happiness and its delights. Death and pain and darkness are caused by a crack in time while appreciating life in all its splendid doom.
There is no turning back, after consenting to this intercourse, between the first seed of guilt and the mind. Mina did this and by consequence, she closed the first small window of her soul that was shedding light towards the doorstep of her whole existence.
A beacon lit in her doom. Her journey had just begun...
I want to talk to you now about the moon, about the evening star. In its shade, i hide in your footsteps, fleeing a minstrel's dismal song. A lemon slice of its heart i hold in my feast while i succumb to inertia. A pilgrm's boat, with a black cloth on its mast, sails to nowhere. Loaded with the ink of our love's demise.
I yearn dawn's gory deeds, to deliver me from my purified agonies. And i shed tears of joy and i shed tears of pain. Acid tears, hatched in the hollows of obscenity. I need to dress up the gown of your fears, i need to hold the thorny edges of your dreams, inside my palms. I need to bleed for the sake of your shade. For your shade fetches the sanity of my memories.
You are there, bewildered in my memories cocoon. My darling butterfly in captivity, my love for you is a moth's uttered benison, the benison of a woman with black eyes and a white pigeon that nests in her breast. A woman waiting for me in the bright side of the moon. I want her as the seasons want tears of heaven and hell on their balcony, lest a pilgrim's boat, loaded with the ink of my love's demise, sails towards the gory deeds of dawn with a white cloath on its mast. With no sea gull, fleeing its minstrel's dismal song, to forsake its past...
There is no poetry in the agony of Death. Just a faceless snare, just a shapeless lair... deep in the dungeons of our soul And the eyes bleed the ink of despair like two dark swallows with black cloth on their mast crying "my Death i sail to Thee... at last!
Original artwork: "Eyes of Soul Death", by ~peterle28