017 THE BLACK HOLE

Images were no longer isolated now. They flickered onto my screen like celluloid passing through the light corridor of a Super 8 film projector. V.A.L. turned her gaze toward the direction of the pointing man. Layer upon layer of old ripped concert posters and stage shows hung abandoned on a fire exit door. And there, barely larger than a thumbnail, was a hole. A tiny black hole that grew across my screen like a drawing in a flick book. V.A.L. was flying straight toward it.