Summer comes with its mountains of red mouths, its
pits full of hungry loves and the remarkable howl of its
narrative (a frenzied hopscotch toward a dim spotlight).
Zero’s preaching to the gospel. But what moves me most
is watching him dumpster-dive into the butcher-block. All
the drama, but frozen in ice or concrete, which, at the sur-
face, betrays eons of frustrations (cellphones, fly-swatters,
etc.). How to burst through and into the vapid sky? Yet we,
on the other side, wait. For that [true story]. One that arrives
only after the wet grit of monotony. And yet. Just to the left
of this (my movie) lies the stinky robot of reality and integrity.
The flick drones on as summer comes, an imagination full of red
spills in alleys where toms pitch bitter yarls onto graffiti. I listen—
loathing silence more than bird or mouse—these yowls my adrenaline.
