It is dusk by the mosquitoes, around the park green bench. The kids’ shrieks come on top of the swing’s creak.
It was an afternoon movie, a story about how we live out our stories. All stories work out the same . Only the characters intertwine like tendrils in the dark green forest,indistinguishable from each other. Everything is such a mess , whether in Napoleons Corsica or in Ravana’s Lanka.
Each of Ravana’s ten heads seems to tell a different story from the way the head moves but in the end each of them is the other, the same story all over.