An afternoon in to myself. Digging in inside. Ink spills: spilt nothing or at least no thing that I was fast enough to film. Light shines on mangled legs, basking like a cat, working on a cut. Sixteen bi-packed, rewind knob, winding back for density; covering the singular moments of time that have already unwound out of the room. Thought in images: ideas and images for a film that will never be made but I make in my head as I check to see if the stove gas is secretly on over and over. And over again. I will not go outside today. It is simply time for an afternoon in to myself.
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