EXT.  THE MISSISSIPPI SOUND ON THE GULF OF MEXICO—DAWN

Focus on the water.  Its surface sheen.  The ripples in crests of waves—the tide moving in and out.  Your hear it.  You hear the tide.  The wet sand at the shore—the watermarks from the salt water there.  A sand crab washed up in the foam, disappearing in it for a moment, then seen again scampering as the brine recedes.  Then the surface of the water again, further out where the waves don’t crest, only swells.  You enter it.  And you see a shard of broken glass.  Dried blood on it.  You enter the water with it, going deep, looking up as you go down.  Some light at first, that first sunlight at dawn, pink on the surface, reflecting faintly in the glass as it sinks.  But then you go down deeper.  Deeper into the darkness.  But no silence.  There isn’t silence in the deep darkness.  The acoustic life underneath the water is heard.  Audible resonance and dissonance.  A trebled theme—soft at first—then louder.  More distinct.  A message…

 DAVID (V.O.)

And I was thinking about Rosie.  The image just came to me as the guard told us the news.  Her bed—a brass bed.  The bed of a girl I met in Mississippi the first time.  In that car I got into. Almost like it was waiting for me at the crossroads. That crossroads where I said yes.  Yes to ride…  And we’ve all done it.  We’ve all accepted that’s there no silence.  Even when we think we hear it.  In what follows bad news…  We think we hear silence, but then really you’ve heard something, some animal in the dark, and then its pause to make you think of it—to make you think of silence—to imagine it…  You see, God got rid of that.  When He moved across it.  When his spirit moved across the dark waters.  The voice enacting all voices—the acoustic harmonies.  For even the water vibrates.  It vibrates with sound.  The sound of life.  Dying and being born again…  Sometimes the frequencies are just too much for us.  They go too fast or too slow.  And we create a reality on what we don’t hear, what we can’t see.  Killing the life that is with a life we manifest as our own creation.  What we come to worship in song.  Our imitations on instruments to the vibrations of earth, air, and water–burning fire.  Our vocal chords once gills in those eons of times before when we first crawled out of the water.  To an earth we now worship as an idol to what once was…  And it is murder.  Our denunciations.  Our claims to silence.  What never was.  And what never will be…

      EXT.  A MISSISSIPPI FOREST—NIGHT

Trees.  Trees coming at you like your traveling through space at the speed of light, passing stars.  A flashing picture of a lone tree at a crossroads.  A full moon above it in the sky.  Sharp movement again.  And you know you’re running.  Running through the gray illumination of moonlight in a forest.  The dark underbrush barely visible. The ground moving beneath you.  Heavy breath.  And then you see yourself running.  Running as a wolf.  Alone from the pack.  Gray and white fur.  Muscles rippling beneath fore shoulders as legs extend and the paws beat the earth.  Running.  A howl escaping what isn’t silence.  Then you see a man running.  From behind.  His form vague and indiscriminate in the dark contours of moonlight.  You hear a woman screaming—Nina’s voice.  And he’s running from it.  Or to it—you can’t be sure.  The murderer.  Focus on a blunt instrument—a black crowbar.  Raised to the night sky.  It coming down.  Raised again.  Blood spilling from it.  Red fluorescence in the darknes.  And then it falls.  It falls out of sight.  Only the hum now.  The hum of David’s guitar.  His voice moaning out a song.  A slide and turnaround. And a moan.  The kind of moan you know would create ripples on the water…

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