I think of a room made of glass. The outside is black. The only source of light is above me: a small lamp with flickering electricity, turning on and off. Light comes and goes. I’m sitting on a wooden chair, my hair cut short and resting on my shoulders. I’m dressed entirely in black.
The light comes and goes until the lamp is completely broken. Suddenly, I find a lantern in my hands. hold it tightly. It explodes. The glass shatters through my hand, leaving me bleeding. I stand still, no change in my facial expression, no sign of agony on my face, only hollowness in my eyes.
The scene cuts to another frame. I’m lighting a match. The details of my body and face are not visible, only a silhouette standing in the room, holding up a burning match. In less than half a minute, the light is gone yet again.
The last shot concludes with a matchbox beneath the chair, burnt matches scattered all around it. The last one is in my hand, close to going out. The camera pans out, showing my figure fading into complete darkness as the match takes its final breath.
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