My unintentional review of Napoleon Dynamite:
It's like seeing a squirrel collecting nuts. He'll scurry here and there, digging with his little paws and sniffing the ground. Sometimes he'll take a nut out of the ground and nibble it a little, as if sampling if it's good enough, and then stuff it back into the ground and actually give the ground a very human little pat. The little fella will diligently do his work and you'd swear he was thinking about his day no differently than you or I.
Then you tell your friend about how amazing and funny and poignant that little performance was, and when they look at the squirrel ... it's just a stupid rodent.
I'm gliding down the train platform in a swirl of commuters, a thousand stories in two thousand shoes, exhilarated by the sheer immensity of the potentials becoming realized. I'm like a leaf on a river, spinning and drifting and bumping and shooting through narrows, intimately connected and delicately removed.
It feels like a wonderful horror or a terrible dream, something both inverted and pristine. A masterwork dinner smashed and smeared across a table. A beautiful woman completely dissected and organized for display. A thousand years for each note of a symphony played for eons. All this movement and all this light unimaginable and beyond comprehension but for a flash of sensation.