I'll freeze in the cinema. Everywhere I point
there's a waterfall, a kiss which has just been
consummated, an electric organ which makes me
feel certain to splash. But I am going to freeze in
my seat. I will not reach for the oversized, open
mouth, the language, the open mouth, reach in and
grab the eyes, hold them until they turn funny.
How do they get everything to stick in such
excruciating detail and color, such that I don't
have in my room? Not even in my pyjamas. Not
even in my red rocker that I pat fondly when I
dream. My fresh marigold stenciled onto my back,
my straw seat. Can it even shimmer, when time
folds like a wax cup left out in the rain? It's
raining now. I told you in my language before, if
you want to know your will, your location, or
exactly what you are feeling, the on-screen actress
will know. Ask her. Do it now.
Hello, there are holes in my ceiling.
I think I am going to fall.