We never made it to the train.

I had made my best to make sure nobody followed us. It never crossed my mind they didn’t have to, they only had to wait.

I don’t even recall any more what was it I wanted to say to Ichiro. All I can vividly remember is how, when I turned to face her, I suddenly saw a hole no larger than a button pop at the front of her white winter jacket. My mind was still trying to understand the meaning of this strange apparition when I noticed a cloud of fine pink mist and feathers forming behind her back.

Memory has a very strange way of erasing some details while virtually etching others right into our brains. Whenever I go back to that cold winter evening in Chiba Station everything becomes as fuzzy as a long forgotten dream. All I can see with vivid clarity is Ichiro’s face, the look in her eyes as she silently fell to her knees. It was not a look of fear or even anguish, if at all, it showed a vague puzzlement, as if she never really understood what was happening.

Only at the very few seconds before she finally collapsed forward to reveal the huge crater the explosive bullet had left in place of where her back used to be, did she show the slightest hint of surprised understanding. That look never had the time to fully form though, she was dead long before her body finally hit the snow.

It wasn’t until later, after the police had questioned me, that my hands and legs began shaking uncontrollably. There was no reason, of course, had they wanted me dead there was nothing that could have prevented it. As it was, I wasn’t a threat, not even a minor nuisance. In their books I was not even worth the cost of the single bullet needed to dispose of me.

I’d hardly known her (that much of what I told the police was thrue), so after a couple of days they returned my passport and I was sent to the airport on a small yellow cab.

The flight back to Mexico was a very lonely one indeed.

The first days of snow brought a strange calm to his bitter soul. He had for many years avoided human interaction, especially around the winter months when his pain grew worse.

Nell loved snow, she always loved to see it fall. Even in those terrible last days, when the pain was so strong she could hardly move, the only thing that brought a smile to her face was the sight of falling snow outside her window.

He would always remember the day he left her side for a few moments to get her a cup of hot tea. He came back to find her dead on her bed. Her eyes were still fixed on the window, watching the falling snow. He could still see her final smile, etched in her now cold lips.

A sudden breeze brought him back from his memories. He pulled his collar up his neck, watched the white-covered earth around him and, hearing the teapot whistling from the kitchen, headed back inside the cottage for a cup of tea.

One of my favorite musicians singing what during my school-years became my personal battle anthem.

Enjoy and happy Monday everyone!

Life, any life,
Unique and fragile.
A single drop of dew
Under the sun.

Life, any life,
A rare accident,
A breaking wave,
A sudden flash.

Life, any life,
Blown away forever
Like a tiny poem
Written in the sand.

Life, any life,
Sacred in it’s brevity.
A rare jewel,
A lonely star.

Stepping into night,
Sleep embraces me.
Senses waver,
Darkness comes.

Next life may be better.
Tomorrow might be next life.
Do we know?

A short but powerful video, really makes you think.

Last Day Dream [HD] from Chris Milk on Vimeo.

“Last Day Dream”

a man watches his life pass before him

Quicktime version

Produced for the 42 Second Dream Film Festival

Beijing China 2009

www.42×42.com

Written and Directed by Chris Milk

Produced by Samantha Storr

Associate Producer Brad O’Connor

Music Chris Milk

Photography Chris Milk

Editor Livio Sanchez

Production Designer Matthew Holt

Wardrobe Stylist Lydia Paddon

Makeup & Wardrobe Molly Paddon

Production Assistance Jason Baum

Production Assistance Clint Caluory

Telecine Dave Hussey

Sound Design Eddie Kim

Shot entirely on Lensbaby Lenses and Canon 5D Mark II SLR Camera

A gentle breeze,
A flutter of leaves,
The sound of running water
In the distance.

A fleeting moment
Gone before we notice,
Our whole life,
an instant.

Birth, death,
Calm and stillness,
Movement and change,
Never and now.

Everything flows,
Everything crumbles,
Reassembles itself,
Always, and never the same.

Attending a celebration of life for a book of erotic poetry in a gallery where I’m surrounded by pieces on child AIDS and the briefness of a life born with the seeds of death.

Aren’t we all in the same situation, celebrating life unaware we are dying from the very instant we are born?