exterior shot of a swamp. a frog is sitting, strumming a banjo. a man in a tinfoil hat lowers himself down out of a helicopter. the frog stops. looks up. hello, the frog says. it’s a fine day, isn’t it? the man in the tinfoil hat says nothing. lets go the rope, stands there a moment shaking the swamp dust and pollen off him. the frog looks down, just a moment. plucks a single note on his banjo. what do you call that, the man says. call what? that song you just played. it was beautiful. but it was just one note. the frog looked confused. he had a good heart.

interior shot of an apartment. a man stands over a telephone, uncertain whether he will finally make the call this time. most likely he will not. but he must at least try. his eyes bulge a moment. he senses the city outside the window, waiting anxiously. tensely, he punches a single number onto the keypad. it is enough.

a soccer ball soars up, spins, and replaces the sun. the world is plunged into hexagonal madness. people sing and swear to themselves. the sound is a one-note whistle through a hollow contraption which was created long ago. elements of understanding gather together. fizzle. robots and rabbits roll dice in the alleyway. the mice are betting on their breeding techniques to outlast them all.

two cameras face each other. and then a third. arms with fingers but no hands grow out of the ground. become forests. birds in the shapes of hands but no fingers or wrists flutter down to roost among them. fingernails fall like feathers to the ground below.