I'm watching The Pianist (2002) now. Going to have to break it into two parts—which may be bridged by the dreams in between.

I complain a lot during the day—a lot a lot. Some is for comedy, but most is just petty whining—amateur stuff, really. Wladyslaw Szpilman survived the German invasion of Warsaw. It turns down the volume of certain transmitters in your head, watching the screen enacted scenes of casual and not so casual violence—humans as animals, and so on. It's not the only feeling, the feeling of "well I guess I don't have it that bad", but it's the one that makes it to the fingers, and out. The rest are a sort of clot.