// max and capable to me

Get out of the sun. And strip.

Need to see why his back is hot.

Then ... let her help.

Sleepy. Finding ‍ ‍ ‍𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐀𝐆 ⨾ 𝐌𝐀𝐗 ‍ ‍ ‍. Curling into his side. Warm. Safe. Home.

Nudges his ribs with her foot.

Blinking down at him, frowning. Slowly sinking to her knees beside him.

Her movements are all very slow, deliberate -- as if she's dealing with a frightened animal that would flee at any moment. She reaches out to rest her hand on his shoulder, her touch feather-light. "Max?"

why do we have to know the cold agony of loss， the insidious poison of obsession， the soft light of wishing， the unbearable pain of despair; then the hope to embrace it all with open arms?

Painstakingly scratching at the sandy residue stuck to the lenses of her goggles.

Looking up, blinking a bit before reaching out and taking it. Spitting on the scarf end and rubbing at the wind-calcified chunks even harder.

"Could use that now," she huffs in frustration, the scarf really only serving to coat the glass in a muddy film now. "Could use a lot of things. Instead, we killed the world. Now we can't see."

He had a dog?

But he chose to stay with you?

Elbows him in the face and keeps sleeping. Shh.

She blinks awake, rubbing sleep and grit from her eyes -- pushing into a solid sit. A hand reaches out ... retracts, hesitates ... continues on its path to Max's shoulder where she'd been drooling, brows knitting out of concern.

She keeps her hand there, despite the tension she can feel rippling beneath her palm. She is patient, determined. She scoots a bit closer, and her fingers soothe a pattern over his shoulderblade -- urging him to relax. "Sorry. Did it bother you?"

On this day, 10 years ago, George Miller's "Mad Max: Fury Road" (2015) premiered in Hollywood, California.