Dear Cast,

Accidents, like chance, are the small movements of obsolescence huddled in the windswept spaces of imagination. A typologie that resembles the populations of the awakened dead from some medieval tympana.


(Scene opens on the front of a dilapitated duplex at the edge of town at twilight. A truck can be heard speeding by in the distance. Mee-Soo Han dressed in black rides a bike into the frame, she hits something on the darking lawn and crashes against the wall. She stands up and walks back a few paces. She spots something on the ground and picks it up. She briskly takes out her keys and runs to her door).


(A frame of an ear, pink and dirty, a finger gently caressing its outline. As the finger traces it the Mee-Soo Han speaks).

Mee-Soo Han (voiceover): "Someone should listen to me as I read from the Book of Matthew, someone should listen to me as I whisper an infinity of secrects about the thickness of temporality, of the bad things which congeal between my figure and the ground I found you on, of the parts, of the extra parts that call me with hostile staccato voices--an inventory of stutters which reverse actuality. Someone should hear me succumb to the voluptous mistakes that flip me back and forth between suspension and spasm. Your tiny folds form the pathology of my wounds, an overpainting of skin, of repeating enfoldments, of a labyrinth that has no name--but SRAE. Your tenderness makes me produce such strange ululalia, circuitous burbles, like a machine seeking to suture itself onto a dead thing's intestines . . . (Someone knocks on the door as a train can be heard in the distance. Mee-Soo Han's stops playing with the ear and quickly covers it over with a TV Guide). Who is it? (After a long pause another loud knock). Who is it?

(After a moment we hear a soft voice speaks through the keyhole).

Voice (the voice is unbearably dry and horse): "It's me. It's me Michael . . . please open the door.