There’s a scene in the wonderful french flick Amélie in which a rapid-cut montage of assorted copulating couples represents Amélie’s imaginative speculation on the number of orgasms occurring at that precise moment. I had a similar epiphany while reading Kierkegaard on the busride home this evening. Except I pictured, not rapturous fornicators operating behind various closed doors, but poor screen-boggled bloggers sitting at their keyboards while manifold opportunities for copulation slip through their fingers.
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