To index Requiem for a Dream is to admit that some stories cannot be summarized. Only felt. Only survived.

Because Requiem for a Dream has no resolution—only a montage of fetal positions and shattered dreams scored to the strings of a Kronos Quartet nightmare. The index ends where it began: with a blank line. Under — see: Delusion .

The index is chronological but feels circular—because addiction does not move forward. It spirals. You can trace the entries backward: Sara Goldfarb, trembling before her wardrobe; Harry, arm rotting from the inside; Marion, trading herself for a future that already dissolved.

If you were to open the Index of Requiem for a Dream , you would not find page numbers. You would find fractures.

The most terrible entry would be a single word: As in, This is happening. This is still happening. This will keep happening.