Post Mad Max Fury Road Syndrome
It's what happens when you get you senses bombarded. When you sit in luxury seating and get your face ripped right off of your head. A wasteland so rich with characters, images and inferences with little explanation other than, check this out, we know you get it. It's all part of your apocalyptic fantasy. It's all part, of your apocalyptic dreams. The really weird stuff you can't explain? well, we got it for you here.
Guitars blazing. Engines roaring. Nuclear storms churning. Creatures from the wasteland battling. Mothers milk pouring. Blood transfusing. All of this, and a storyline full of the power of hope, redemption, misguided faith, and how feminine power just might save the world from the madness of men. It's a movie I can't stop thinking about. It's a movie where, when you watch it, your face looks like this: 
I walked out of the theater on a rainy sunday afternoon, but did not want to leave. Something was tugging me back inside. Do not go, it said, come back, come back. I wanted to listen, for outside, everything seemed pale, slow, quiet, lifeless. There was no real urgency. Nothing spectacular.
Is there a cure for this? Bullocks. There is. I'm going straight to Valhalla. I live, I die, I live again.
