I taper our next stage with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today a screenwriter would work with genres and forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs.
I have not fulfilled norms set by stop action. (Politics and dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Nothing personal, I cry when it becomes subsequent, crediting the surface with no message.

But now —


When struck a lightning rod emits a ballet in dust and after that a solution,
a chemical substance that recuses itself and returns as a cognitive coloration, a hint there is a small commotion in the back of matter. Like with one who is loved.

Still, foot hills stew out back under the sun in blistering speed.
Front and back: Ants everywhere climb blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.

Hollywood has always been a wide-open town that devours its athletes.