FROM THE WRONG TRAIN.  The breakthrough came 
on the uptown E train, bound for Parsons Centre
or Queens or Watchamacallit.  Breakthrough 
arrived somewhere between 42nd and 50th 
streets.

She'd known it was around here somewhere, 
she'd been looking for it, getting ready, 
waiting.

First the carriage lights flickered out, 
then the entire thing was immersed in this 
flash of blue light.  She shut her eyes and 
waited for the universe to take her.  But it 
didn't.

A moment later, power was restored and she was 
left sitting there, limply, wondering why it
always ended like this.

The break?  The break is like Mothlight, Stan 
Brakhage, 1963.  Dried flowers, dead insect 
wings, glued onto celluloid, projected.  No 
camera.  No mise-en-scene, no script, no 
overhead, no 180-degree rule.  No practiced 
shot.  Mostly, no narrative.  There is the 
universe of plots and subjects and people and 
there is the break where there is nothing.  But 
dried flowers, dead insect wings, glued onto
celluloid, projected.  No camera...

And in the break she doesn't /have/ to make 
sense at all.  Because actions have no 
consequence and thoughts come free of crime.

iheartchloe : inbetween : whatever