“Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. Now that he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.” George Orwell

-What are you protecting?

-I told you I ask the questions.

In a flash The Interviewer flickers in and out.

-What are you…my…what are We protecting?

-…

The Director fades into the shadows… everything falls apart

He watches the crack grow longer and splitting across the fish tank. The eyes are still watching him, penetrating into his but he can’t see their mouths. He feels their eyes, more than ever he can see what they are as they spin in circles staring out blankly he sees their life, even if they can no longer feel it. As they raise their hands to the sky in some sort of worship he cannot recognize, a small amount of fear begins to overwhelm him. A hum he cannot understand exits their mouths in a droning, sleep inducing pace. Water begins shooting from the cracks in the fish tank as the humming grows louder. A hand passes by his eyes as he sees himself in an alleyway with rain pouring down his hat. Still the humming continues and the faces follow not far behind. The invisible hand behind him directs him forward as he turns back and sees a greenish fog ascending from the ground below the humming people. They cannot see it, but he notices the fear in their eyes. a whisper from somewhere-they cannot see it, but they’re told it is there. And the desert washes over him and the bleeding sun and he is reminded of something that is instantly forgotten. As he puts his hand on the pavement below his feet, the pulse is gone, but the green fog surrounds his hands. He tips his hat as the fear grows stronger in their focused eyes, and the humming grows louder and is near impossible to understand but it’s their beating hearts that he still can see, it is what he came for. He places his hand in front of his mouth, but it is no longer there. In a scream something releases from his eyes, he falls to his knees and raises his hands up as the rain pours down on his fog covered hands

-Cut! Cut!

The Detective sees her, the long blond hair, her dying eyes, the red lipstick spread across her mouth, the Hollywood sign burning to the ground, the children reaching, crying out to the Earth. Blankness, shadows walk through him, fade from this

-Remember why you’re here

The blood of the sun awakens him.

-I don’t

There is a drilling coming from behind me. They are coming for me now. They’ve taken enough pictures, distracted enough thoughts, my story is old and it needs to end. There are hands reaching for me, voices I’ve long forgotten calling out for me, the tears of my mother and my sister are washing down my face as they fall from above. I don’t want to leave, please don’t take me away from here. Hands are reaching through the cracks in the wall as I have nowhere to turn.

The old man holds his lamp up, shining down from the mountain. He has a song to sing but he can’t remember the words. He has a story to write but no longer has a pen. He has dreams to film but there is no camera. His painting, the Last painting is finished in a mural spread across his mind. He hears their cries of pain and despair emanating from his blood and it’s all he needs to know. As long as their story is untold, as long as their song remains unsung, he must continue telling it, even if it ends in a blaze of fire. He touches his beating heart and cries out a song that only he can hear. There is nothing untouched by it.