The moholy silence on the dreamboat of the bourgeoisie
flickers off the water, not in the squiggly self-deceiving way of its
forefathers, but in the framed light of an industrial ferry boy in the window
producing great mechanical structures along the bedroom ceiling. Sharp, dashing
shards quicker than film will never repeat themselves twice. The lightshow is
light relief from the stagnant waves of artists standing by.
