One of the masterworks of the eerie: Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now.
The atmosphere of Venice in its shadows or watery winter daylight or dark restoration interiors, blind women who can 'see'. Grief-struck mother who needs to believe. Ghostly figure just beyond reach, darting into an alley across the small midnight bridge.
The side effects of a pill. Being aware and becoming wary of them. Like the presence of -- I don't believe in ghosts -- some 'unwanted visitor'. Raising the hair on my legs while tingling and numbing them. Leaving pinprick marks on a curve like a segment of crop circles. Not really fattening my lips, so why the feeling of that?
Not so much in control as when I was a young man panicked merely by accusations against my looks.
Waiting outside the office, a guy with no right ear, just masking tape over the hole.
The other guy who always comes in late, cuts deep into the room, unpacks, unzips, sharpens, raises his hand first, and without writing a thing, voices his opinion, becomes the 'lead' to a discussion that -- because of him -- always and immediately turns to quick, cynical observations.
His right eye, eyelid, and upper cheek is bleached albino.
Post-war American panache, goofy and confident despite the mushroom clouds and then-recent megadeath. A loosening of the US military blouse, symbolic triumph over a dwarfed, defeated enemy, a belittling of a Europe at that point flattened, the parent proven not to know the lessons it was meant to teach.
The child not yet learning all the lessons, but bluff in its underdeveloped certainty.