A pan of the hemisphere-in-the-moment, no sound recording, brought fresh eyes into "a landing". You'd often see (i)not a lot of activity(i) in places where it had been "leaked" that (i)there might be a camera(i), but for on "the fringes". There'd you'd typically see little clusters of what had become "collateral damage" but looked like people milling about.
"I'm not familiar with this style."
"Of what?"
"Of acting."
"Okay, so, so...it's like Improv and, um, that book."
"Book?" She rolled a cigarette and pressed her lips together as if she was wearing lipstick.
"(i)Play It As It Lays(i), Didion I think."
A younger person walked up. She said, "You look confused."
"Is someone going to call 'action'?"
"No, not at this part. The action is ongoing."
And it had been. But like an octopus unaware of what it's ink will do, exactly, after it bleeds, there were lots of missing links between us all.
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