Interstellar

Often times during sex, when I’m fighting the urge to dump the hard drive, I don’t count sheep, I cue Hans Zimmer’s score in my head and replay the docking sequence. The spin, the tilt, the G-force swallowing everything. “It’s not possible.” “No… it’s necessary” Brand folds into the spin, blacking out (you fool!), while Coop leans against it, straining, clawing for consciousness, willing himself to match the chaos and lock it in. That’s your boy. That’s how I edge. Raging, raging against the dying of the light, docking not as surrender but as survival.