The understudy anticipates a calamity. Time is black; he wears it like a sharp metal barb. The practiced life and the ten thousand complicated shingles arbit with crucial delicacy his diminished shelter. He hates the banal and wishes for disaster. The leading man is oblivious — he rubs her shoulder, his sturdy wooden shelves, his lack of zeal and luster— little he considers the understudy’s nervous laughter. While the worm could creep an inch, while the world trembles in a bunched up ball, time is the name of that warm country to escape to— an ideal film flickers in a private place for hatred. The understudy knows the words potential sound. He has writ them in a dusty drawer; they are dark. Would the storm unleash its hellish body… The understudy waits.