The Holes of the Frame

In the box, down the hall, or in the hole, down. Through scarves and feathers, tatters of fabrics, looking at or by or maybe on the side of a frame we think window, and in which we see nothing but a dark reflection of us, we impress the lens. To a film? Huh. Not anymore. Processed by a chemistry that only existed, we still want to be seen whereas at the end, we only stand in a cloud which they say is real. Pellicolla is only a vague memory. The legend talks of a cloud where they keep us organized in zeros and ones, on discs, locked in concrete. But we never really know who or what we really look at and where we really go. We never know who we really are once we offer the lens a piece of the soul she never asked for. What do we see? A black mirror, a corridor of postiches, masks and pearls. A brouhaha of feathers, a tongue in a mouth we call a kiss and maybe three words on a page we call script, we call press, we call story. Maybe we try to look at a place where no one has never gone to. A field of princess dresses laid on grass where the river flows and welcomes our fingers to sink in her mud.