For my corpus I’m writing in a fraught cycle of perpetual panic.
The set director had called for corn husks, vinyl-yellow, by french doors in a blue room where we proceed with surgery to remove fat.


Not yours, happily. But close enough.

The screenwriter wants to stay chic simple, s/he develops the fat — tints it solar opaque. Then changes fat to windows.

And the surgery is successive! The windows break down, riv vu.