a woman, mad, sitting on the imitation marble benches in the underground at RER station A, charles de gaulle etoiles. a star. her desperate voice echoes across the gewölbten wände. a flute plays somewhere as if accompanying her, her very own score and soundtrack. the two voices intertwining in strange harmony. people walking past, this is paris and mad women and men in every station. she holds out her hand, not begging, but pleading, s'il vous plaît. the woman dressed in a cashmere coat walks on by and the mad one nods, yes of course you don't want to see me. but i see her, hear her. it is the most beautiful mis-en-scene imaginable. the flute keeps on playing, the colors mingle.
then a rumbling noise joins this choreography. i'm fumbling for my camera, trying to capture a glimpse, the last sounds on earth, but too late. the bomb drops. the train rolls in and i can only hear the woman behind this metal barrier. i realize that this is the grand finale, the high point of it all, this here symphony. the iron monster cutting through the strange harmony, separating flute and voice, two natures interrupted. like it did cutting through the buffalo tracks and the apache warrior. the proud cry of the warrior. has become the pleas of a madwoman and pan keeps playing his happy tunes. he says all is changing but not me. i can stop time while you deteriorate in your rotten towns. so i start filming as the train rolls out, once again revealing the owner of that voice, vestiges of one who must have been proud once like a warrior. the next iron monster cuts through once again and my eyes turn to the concrete ground. a far cry from the steppes, from buffalos, from white magic. this is the place of black magic and i will learn its lessons. then i will wrap myself in cream-colored furs and return to the land of snow and ice.