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Films feature unsmall histories;

    fancy yourself a star, but

can you be if all others are also?

Impossible.

Wretches, golden boys, diamond girls

   congregate, walking over long-

   eclipsed shades marked by sunken ideograms.

Thousand story souls hold parallel intersects –

   all imperfect, and none as weighty as first

   thought.

Bits are rusted by unexpected sneers –

   rude unwrapped.  Wounding.

When shadows pervade and flit

   past mirrors, we all reflect

   the boisterous grief of being no more

   than a fishwife – droll on screen but

   lurid in the flesh.

Hypnotic half-truths engage the viewers.

The screenwriter should be fired.