The Paprika soundtrack reminds me most of the evening pre-slumber, engrossed in a fantasy world of my own design, a particular blind, optimistic lie of that winter season. Fitting for a film of dreams. The root emotions attached to the film and soundtrack are almost ephemeral, an electricity not precisely recreated since. They are remembered, but not revisited.

It is par for the course that music invokes memories, but exceedingly rare that a film also has such an impact and such an attachment — perhaps that is a greater sign of those times than anything else. A rewatching while unpacking into my new house, nearly a year later, gave the film a much more baleful tone, inexplicably. I prefer the first memory, even if it was a prelude to delusion.