Crepuscule: the magic hour. In this hesitation between day and night, we hurry to grasp a mood, a love affair, a righting of wrongs. Sad when light runs out. Lower the bastard blinds. Wiggle your fantastic fanny; keep your hat on as you ascend the stairway to heaven.

 

My god, see the grain in her panties. The pouring out of figs, papaya, citron. We almost captured the love affair, the horn of plenty, the righting of wrongs. In this fragile interval, impossible to tell: are shadows advancing or receding? Tie back the curtain, wrap your bra 'round the banister.

 

My compulsion: to film the ravine at dusk. Jürgen and Chloë ride the rim of desire, the lip of intimacy. Their love affair spans his penis. We have only an hour to right the wrongs. Cling to this moment, mourn its passing. See the stairway wrapped in wool. Let your silky things slide under.

 

J and C ride the hips of hedonism. The A of Victory. Rapid-fire arpeggios slipping under the subtext. The vascillating light. This is the time of love affairs. The time of lettuce leaves with stigmata. Lemons blowing in the wind. Confound us, twirl as though you are day turning to night.

 

This is the hour entre chien et loup. Bury your head in fur. The color temperature drops dramatically; gold fades to blue. Uncertain: is this scene hot or cold-blooded? Tragic to miss the affair, the horror of plenty, the wrong turn. Wrap your brain in curtains, toss them over the balcony, caress his ankles.

 

This is not a case of mistaken identity; you have no fangs but only the smoothest of skin. Your compulsion: hurl yourself down the slick embankment. Chloë, drag yourself to safety but quickly, the light, we can't tell if you are perfume or gangster. The mood, the love affair, everything's....