The canvas resists a title, a frame. She mists it down with Joy, White Shoulders, Contradiction. The film snaps at a crucial point and the audience roars its disapproval, stomping their feet on the plank floor. A backbeat of unison, camaraderie. The projectionist forgets what movie they're watching and splices another into it.
Nobody notices the plot has been disturbed.
The projectionist wonders what kind of career he's got now that the world's promptly being automated. He begins to cry. His shoulders cave in with the thought of so much grief. When she takes the scissors to her mane, the snakes crumble into baby blonde locks. She climbs the projectionist's steep stairs and entering his little room, offers the hair to him.