Dear Trapped,

Disaster is the pale strangers in the streets that look each other but don't see at each other.


(The scene opens on an endles row of doll faces without bodies. We can hear the sound of heavy rain and a train passing in the distance. A sudden strike of lightning illuminates even more dolls in various stages of dismemberment in a long ornate room. A phone rings several times. Finally the answering machine picks up, "Chance feels like an infinity of images--please leave your reflection at the tone." A young woman's voice speaks, it is fractured by high-static on the line--it's Katrina).

Katrina: Robert imagine them both dead, covered with your fragments, no one is in the room. The room is empty of everything accept chance and infinity--I love them both--secretly. You should be here with me, unscripted, shattered by lightning, like one of your dolls full of fake cadaverous immobility. But, you can't move beyond that Blue Bitch Thing you call Mother can you? You should kill that labyrinth like I did, steal what is most base, and meet me at the Crossroads Diner. I don't think anyone knows--but, I don't have time for anything that doesn't involve visions or disasters. I think I know who has his paintings--you have to help me, please come. Please be a brief instant of sun--don't become another machine--only an endless siezure. . .someone is walking down the hall. . .I have. . . .(the answering machine clicks off).

(Another illumination of lightning crosses the room. A figure appears, it moves toward the blinking red light of the answering machine. A long blue finger nail touches the fast foward and rewinds it--erasing the message).