Dear Subverted,
Vision scans itself faster than it can see--always already haunted by a remainder of immobility that it cannot avoid. The vague accident of the after-effect that now codes the new order of the unseeable.

SCENE 47: THE SCAN. (The scene opens with a window being smashed and shadows moving into the frame. As the camera pulls back we see a red van, the engine starts, the lights come on, the parking lot is empty. As the van pulls away we can read "VAGUE1" on rear plate. In the distance the sound of a train passing can be heard).


(A series of small monitors all in precarious stacks, each monitor seems to contain several frames of body segments: a big toe, a mouth sucking on a floppy disk, a cock jerking off on some scrawled word that reads "killer applet," a finger pointing to Greimas's semiotic square, a woman's breast dripping white milk onto the screen, and a transparent body floating over the words "scene of the crime." As each frame comes into view we hear a voice, almost as an echo, over the roar of an engine).

Driver (A voiceover): "Fuck screens. Alterity mutates into the endo-colonization of organless bodies, a perceptual bedlam of repressed material vectors--we are caught in the double cave of a town in need of a deep forensic cut. We will scan the terminal transparecy of Crossroads and write code graffiti on the walls of the suspended flesh that covers so many empty faces. We will cut out the pure geometry of its lasts moments and watch it flicker out--in a ready-made coma."


(The view of long road as dim lights barely cut into the night ahead. In the distance we can see the blinking neon of the CrossRoads Diner).

Passenger (his voice is speed made sound): "Let's ransack this entire putrid town, it's neon signs, it's hysterical sirens, it's crawling figures--let's spasm the cozy spectacle. Let's blow it all up--all these clowns, jugglers, waifs, stupid bars, and make it all one giant monstrous space without ground."

Scanner (his voice is soft machinic whirring): "Current scanning is pushing towards more than a hundred lines of cruelty--I can almost see those imperceptible machinic pulses. It seems to be grabbing some figure ahead of us, almost like someone is gouging the screenal curtain--looks like. . . shit (A spinning figure, luminous and unfolding, plays in the middle of the road ahead).

Driver: What the hell is . . . (He slams the breaks on, the van hits a post, and spins in a slow veritgo towards the large plate glass windows of the CrossRoads Diner. On the crashing monitors we can Hope, Grace, Mercy, and Faith sitting at a table looking at the van as it slides towards them. The screen breaks into tiny glass stars that rip into motionless flesh).