There’s a serious fire in his inescapable to neglect belly
To breathe it all in, to take exactitude and bring it to the very next level
He’s seen a few things for their altogether sizeable worth, hurts to discuss such things for a particular director who sees it oh so preposterous and clearly
When fiction breathes aside real life
Paved and placed insistently inside of these soon to be righteously marveled at films of his
Tapestry to a meticulous, frightfully instigated point – to become one of his actor muses is to lend him a piece of your otherwise glad ragged existence, to relinquish the fear to create pure, unmatched greatness
All of it heavily nestled upon the shouldered hopes of a movie-making genius
Soon as Tarantino turns his mind to magic, killer instinct folklore – to worship as well as deplore to destroy in showers of red thickened blood these ogle-eyed actors-cum-characters who shall, nonetheless, travel on through to his every next story
Only, of course, if so luckily inclined as to find time again up inside of his conveyor belt mind
Ask Uma Thurman and she’ll only ever utmost wholeheartedly agree
Seems the Killer T. could never simply take the hint to slay her