Movie scene Tuesday, July 04, 2006 |
Movie scene:
The night soaks away outside, and the quivers and booms of the fireworks outside can be felt, even inside snug homes. It’s the Fourth of July, but inside, nothing gives it away. The house is silent, except for the tap, tap, tapping of the keyboards. The living room looks like an abandoned set. Two feeble lamps scattered in opposite corners of the room light up the otherwise shadowed room. The air is frozen,, the world has stopped, and everything looks as if it should be moving. Darting, jumping, ready to act. With these invisible movers, the ghosts of the real people, the people that should have lived here.
The tap tap tapping of the keyboards is a shadow of something far away. Tap tap tap dancing of a band, maybe. Tap tap tapping of clapping crowds, maybe. Either way, the night is long, the air is warm, not unpleasant, but stuffy. This girl, she sits in front of the glowing computer screen, not even glancing at the window, opened with words and lines. She’s staring at the shelf next to the computer. These weird toys, office supplies, a DVD player, blank CD’s tucked tight in its case, overturned on its side on the floor. It’s a Tuesday, but it really feels like a dark and frozen Saturday night. Never mind the rest of the world. Here, it’s just her, the music that flows through her earphones, and these words.
The Lucksmiths are singing. The vocals so genuine, so homely, that it might as well have been playing next door. The swiping guitars, melodies that carried the sort of vague pop sadness, seemingly hatched just for her. Just for this.
And the words are what pours out, as the music and the thoughts of a stray night pours in. The words, those dancing, flickering beasts or beauties. Angelic little devices that serve no purpose. Or did they? Did it matter?
The silence edges and attacks from outside, but the earphones are secure, her eyes are still straying, glancing, searching, but not looking at anything, really. Just something to do while her fingers tap tap tapped away. Something in the air is promting her to write on. The words slipping out, without direction.
Everything is a distraction. Nothing distracts her. And then each second, the tap tap tapping goes by, the more worthless her thoughts seems to become. Wisps of smoke and fog and mirrors inside mirrors, a hallway of mystery and disbelief.
The night soaks away outside, and the quivers and booms of the fireworks outside can be felt, even inside snug homes. It’s the Fourth of July, but inside, nothing gives it away. The house is silent, except for the tap, tap, tapping of the keyboards. The living room looks like an abandoned set. Two feeble lamps scattered in opposite corners of the room light up the otherwise shadowed room. The air is frozen,, the world has stopped, and everything looks as if it should be moving. Darting, jumping, ready to act. With these invisible movers, the ghosts of the real people, the people that should have lived here.
The tap tap tapping of the keyboards is a shadow of something far away. Tap tap tap dancing of a band, maybe. Tap tap tapping of clapping crowds, maybe. Either way, the night is long, the air is warm, not unpleasant, but stuffy. This girl, she sits in front of the glowing computer screen, not even glancing at the window, opened with words and lines. She’s staring at the shelf next to the computer. These weird toys, office supplies, a DVD player, blank CD’s tucked tight in its case, overturned on its side on the floor. It’s a Tuesday, but it really feels like a dark and frozen Saturday night. Never mind the rest of the world. Here, it’s just her, the music that flows through her earphones, and these words.
The Lucksmiths are singing. The vocals so genuine, so homely, that it might as well have been playing next door. The swiping guitars, melodies that carried the sort of vague pop sadness, seemingly hatched just for her. Just for this.
And the words are what pours out, as the music and the thoughts of a stray night pours in. The words, those dancing, flickering beasts or beauties. Angelic little devices that serve no purpose. Or did they? Did it matter?
The silence edges and attacks from outside, but the earphones are secure, her eyes are still straying, glancing, searching, but not looking at anything, really. Just something to do while her fingers tap tap tapped away. Something in the air is promting her to write on. The words slipping out, without direction.
Everything is a distraction. Nothing distracts her. And then each second, the tap tap tapping goes by, the more worthless her thoughts seems to become. Wisps of smoke and fog and mirrors inside mirrors, a hallway of mystery and disbelief.