The curtains part, the lion roars to signal the beginning of the story. The clatter of the reel in the silence of the hall, the grainy colors on the film. A woodpecker drills holes in the wood: repeats, repeats. You sit in the darkened theatre on a worn velvet seat. A woman’s face comes on the screen, as if in rapture though flames lick at her bound feet. It’s always like this— there’s danger at every turn, or the tedium of long afternoons as days shade toward winter. You learn to carry your own epiphanies. I prefer the versions with no dubbed captions: the eyes say so much more, and hands are good for gestures. Before too long, music foreshadows the closing credits. A scroll floats before your eyes with the words The End.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.