The Commet...

The searching dusk of the television superimposes itself over the darkness of the room. Shadows dance with the flickering images, with the camera-changes and cutaways. Live footage from outer space plunges everything into a still blackness. Only the commet moves. Back to the studio; and for a moment the dancing shadows are stunned and frozen by the the gravity of the situation.

His face is sick and luminescent. Its contours traced by contrast. Black and white and motionless. Expressionless. Dead already. His eyes reflect the depth of space and the vast coldness of reality. The insentience of God. Only in some insignificant corner of his soul is it possible to glimpse the passion of a human Christ who lived and loved and cried and fucked. Some tiny flame in his eyes burns like our sun in a cold and infinite eternity. Our sun, which gave us life and in which he once glimpsed the perfect beauty of that life, bathing in its accidental warmth. So far and yet so near.

In the vastness of space, the commet slowly hurtles toward the earth. In the vastness of his soul, his fire slowly consumes everything. Maria, Mum, Dad, David, Hae Bin... They are everthing. They are bigger than everything. Life is bigger than the universe. Life is bigger than reality.

His eyes flicker.

A cutaway to the commet.

He is alone in the darkness.