The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person… Continue reading writing: screenplay #3, “muse”
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 