Go and see Inglourious Basterds, it's phenomenally different. And an absolutely superb movie.

It's SO warm outside tonight. Darkish warmth enveloping you, making everything a bit surreal as you can't think about anything besides the extraordinariness of the warmth (and Tarantino's movie). And you go home and you like the city a bit more than you should, as in the twilight, the sky still purplish and pink in the distance, everything becomes slightly unreal. You walk on the other side of the street because you never do that and it makes all the difference. Someone is walking on the roadway, keys clattering in her bag. Someone is riding a bike. There's laughter in a garden you walk past. A lot of windows are ajar, almost noone has drawn their curtains yet. A choir of male voices is singing in Latin in their fraternity house, all windows wide open. The sound of your heels on the pavement. A gust of warm wind blowing some yellow leaves along the street. Hanging off from an old fence, a piece of paper with the description of a missing cat. The smells that you usually don't notice, but which become more distinct in the slightly damp air. The smell of fresh firewood. The smell of the end of summer. The warmth. It's so painfully sad that it becomes absolutely perfect.