Love is so Short, Forgetting is so Long

Everyone drop your pressing life commitments and watch Stories we tell on Netflix for a beautiful, subtly surprising story about family secrets and memory. Why is it that when I read or watch something about a family with deep secrets, with turmoil, I weirdly long for my own, for material? What is that? Shouldn’t I just be appreciating the cuddly warm stasis that has been the bulk of my life? PERHAPS THAT COULD BE A (THE MOST BORING) DOCUMENTARY?

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