I sat there counting my fingers, touching each finger to my thumb; one,  two, three, four, one, two, three, four. I couldn’t find myself to do  anything else. The counting distracted me from myself. It distracted me from the random thoughts bouncing around in my head that would  potentially send me into a nervous breakdown; one, two, three, four.
I am alone. One, two, three, four.  I’m too fragile for friends, they  don’t understand that I sit in sorrow and bathe in the past.
One,  two, three, four. If only I was 'normal' whatever that is. My pain has  been hushed, no one likes to talk about the past.  I don’t even like  talking about the past.  One, two, three, four. 


A  middle-aged but forgotten author of elite fiction watches a film  adaptation of his first book and is immediately enraptured by the young  actor in the leading role. Captivated and, increasingly, consumed: he discovers more about the person, his life, finds old photographs, kisses  them - and more. 

Eventually, his mania takes him to a meeting and a  pathetically awful denouement.

Everything Could Be So Perfect is  an engaging study of an obsession.  


There was certainly a connection between us.  It was obvious.  Age was  nothing, it did not matter. Perhaps this would be something new in his  life he had not experienced yet.  And this was confirmed to me by one  small incident that occurred towards the end of the evening.  It  happened when I was again in full flight discussing something about the  film Home that Karan interrupted me to ask whether I would like coffee  or not and to my great, secret gladness, Lawrence snapped at her telling  her not to interrupt. It was so abrupt that she stormed out and sulked  in the kitchen.  He didn’t follow her, he did not apologize for his  behaviour.  He just shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows at  me.  I nodded in silent agreement.   


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