the auteur

nothing is real.

the pause is the hook. the first act. the second-hand nudes. it’s the wait to see if my daughter will come into the room with your tits exposed, the sneer of a shark reflected in the mirror. the pause is the time it takes to see if someone spits out the poison. or swallows. the pause is the false humility, the artifice of dried flowers in a country kitchen

the pause is the jump scare. it’s the carp mouths of bottom feeders. stretched lips for constipated husbands. it’s hidden cameras and teenaged kids passed out on the floor. it’s the smut of bogans in debt. ski boats and bank loans. the pause is the pinch faced character actor, stealing from the dead. it’s an absence of beauty when you’re surrounded by thieves.

the pause is the final act. the pause is the reveal of the villain, but the tape has been chewed.