The sounds of this film are like primal percussions for me—the hoofbeats, the snake hiss, the tack, the ticking of the watch during the speed test, the groans of the dying ship, all the different sounds of water—and I once spoke with a blind woman who called this her favorite movie.

NATURALLY, it's its Manic Pixie Dream Show.  But with Generationally Representative Self-Awareness

Reading Lydia Davis is an intensely uneven experience; I'll roll my eyeballs over a short short story on one page, and on the next page a prose poem will punch me in the lung. 

I am genuinely upset, as this is most probable future for Charlie Brown.