I’ve gone blind. I exaggerate. A little. I can see, but it feels like I ought to be blind.
I only attempted to watch all of Breaking Bad in one sitting. I knew better. But every time I tried to look away, some new nuance of the story, the camera work, or the acting just drew me back in. About fifty hours later I have to admit I am hungry.
And my eyes won’t close.
Or open again.
He may be the one who knocks, but I won’t be answering the door.
The mannequin stands silent, at attention, dressed in the finest white tie fashion.
His classic appearance is marred only by the secchi disk emblems seen on his hips, temples, and knees. Exactly why a display mannequin would need fiducial markers is left unsaid, and is probably a question better left unasked. A smudge on one marker suggests that the mannequin’s life is not all wine and roses. If the mannequin could talk, he would likely have stories to tell.
He stands in an alcove cleverly lined with mirrors so that the view past his shoulders extends to infinity, almost as if he is stuck in the transition from one plane of existence to another. He does not seem too happy about that.