This scene hit when I first saw it. It made me feel like I had been drugged. I wondered if I was seeing it correctly at the time. Also, coincidentally, I had been drugged. The novelty effect of this scene was consistent with all of Bjork’s creative moments at the time, and the movie itself then sent me into a spiral of sobbing in a way that no other movie had ever done. It took a while to recover once I got home. Thinking back, the movie was very sad and messed up, like every Lars Von Trier movie ever made, and you will probably cry… but the combo of going through something highly emotional and complex while watching it was like trying to fight a Tiger in a pit of Inland Taipans. Floodgates obliterated. And at that moment, Bjork sanctioned a formidable relationship in my life. Her shamany sprinkles of Icelandic ice dust covered us like tiny stars and bioluminescent plankton. And we coruscated together for a long while. Until the end. Like when that massive rogue planet hit Earth in Melancholia. Fuck you, Lars…Fuck you.

It was never our fault, and if the outside world had just left us alone, things would have been different. The subtle flex of the thigh was the truth of it, and it speaks into the night without you. Under the covers. With only my other thigh to yap it up with. And that one pretends to be you. And then the next. And on down the line.