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It howled its auditions on the desertedbacklots.
It tumbled scraps of paper through the crumbling plaster wonders of the world.
It rattled the boards until they fell into the sand and were covered.
Clickaclickaclicka.
The wind sighed around the skeleton of a picturethrowing box, leaning drunkenly on its abandoned tripod.
It caught a trailing scrap of film and wound out the last picture show, snaking the crumbling glistening coils across the sand.
In the picture-thrower's glass eye tiny figures danced jerkily, alive for just a moment . . .
Clickaclicka.
The film broke free and whirled away over the dunes.
Clicka . . . click . . .
The handle swung backwards and forwards for a moment, and then stopped.
Click.
Holy Wood dreams.