"Patricia Gozzi and her Scarecrow in Rapture". . .Entered my consciousness (and still does from time-to-time), this, this, that film, years ago, in the sedimentation of my solidifying Swedish releases (French/English, or otherwise Unknown), otherwise to exterminate the distinct mentality of character build-up/study(ies), or the spaces of appearance, as if I could handle it (unbeknowest at the time) without needing my hanky to help squeeze out the poignance from my eyes, from my veins and thru my . . . well, something cribbed from the dictionaries of my protoplasmic display, or dismay, could have chewed on Crayola, could have been a fuselage, a rope tangled in an old rosebush - or else it's the allure at ease, that premature brooming swept over us as if we were definitely associated with the "forces that apply" - the "droid", "oid", not ever needing the Seebeck Effect, into the leakage of eyes, past the shaft gland packings, the dummy pistons ("you dummy!" - Three Stooge effect not in affect!), diaphragms and blade-tips of unsubsided falling-in-loveness. Georges Delerue's soundtrack will make the concentration of such superstructure crawl up your spine, and linger there forever, ever, ever. Heartbreaking, heartbreaking. Oh, Patricia. . .Oh, that rupture of Rapture. . .
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