Inside the back room of Lums
there is an office with scattered sheets of multiple revision, scripts with
broken spines lying half-open and thoroughly pencil annotated. Streams of sliced film, ribbon and cut out in
tiny squares, arranged with assumed chronology on the floor. A husky voice is heard bitching aloud,
grousing that everything he has worked on today has resulted in pure bona fide
grade A choice cut shit. Somebody is saying the word places. Mary yawns, adjusts her wig and knots her
apron strings, tapering out a cigarette. A plucked ostrich quill brushed beneath
her chin curves the crevice of her chin into a smile.
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