Something.
I have to make something up to save my ass. The last call. The moment of truth. The idea man at the line. What’s on the script? What happens in the scene? Where does that scene lead us? What’s really under the skin of the story? What am I fucking saying? Whe am I kiding? The fight. The scene is empty. Both faces fall in the ground as they start to fight on the floor. Totally different ballgame, says the narrator of the story. I kid from mix background from some inmigrant place. Why wouldn’t dreamers come flying to meet theirselves against the all mighty american dream? I am a dreamer, too. I’ve been tourchured by my incompetence as a writer. I can write a complete story. The end never arrives. I just keep within the part of the narrative that developes in the middle, towards that expected boom and the end of our patients within a closed dark room with seats for people fo gather infront of a film for the first time. They decide to play the game of going to the movies. The way we expectators have a relationship with friends all the way back to the firt time you went with your cousins to watch that one movie that marked your life and your generation of biggest concept family.
Family plus.
