| Darkness, and a scratching, whirring noise
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| Darkness, and then, slowly, the pictures shudder up in sight
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| A building string of images like silvery bubbles surfacing from the deep
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| It’s almost always raining, drizzling, misting, slightly, lightly, heavily
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| But almost always dripping
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| The kitchen faucet marking time
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| Camera pans across it through washed out black and white Tin-tack
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| Across the dark, the color a saturated smear;
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| The Lighting Director’s guiding
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| The highlights all the time
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| The print is scratchy and smells mildewy… too much rain
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| Stomach’s empty… the fridge is a booming echo chamber
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| They edit in stock horror darkening footage of
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| Starvation, atrocities, Vietnam war footage
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| Descending through it. |
| the crackling of outtake sections litter the stairwell,
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| serpentine and yet brittle, a close crop
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| Zoom to feet descending, descending
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| Frames skipping and jumping in vertical crash scratching
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| The hallway to street sub-lit in shadow
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| Casting rotting thick as broken glass shards
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| And the reflections sparkle in the rain-speckled sidewalk
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| It’s always raining
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| But that’s the way this film runs
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| The scenes seem clear, but the final print is always too grainy or scratched…
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| Blurs the longer you watch it and
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| Finally just falls away to clips and snapshots of its former glory
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| Loop that frames the whole world outside, often running in slow motion
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| Perhaps the projectionist has nodded off in a stupor during the last showing
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| His elbow hitting a switch
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| And for a second, or a week, the world runs in reverse
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| The images all silent
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| Filmed and jerking nervously back across the streets
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| Seems like the reel is always running backwards
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| Time is fiction
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| Time is fiction
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| So, why don’t you come lay down with me
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| In this pitch-bending film loop
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| And let the acid rain beat down on our bodies |