giddy swoons. little hands makes me think of tweety bird. tweety bird in the backseat on a country road tweeting aha! in a dust and feather cloud anticipating every thrill but in a cage and driven by a mad carivore autopilot. but that's not it. ain't no thrill. just a sick preoccupation with the precipice, and beyond, the beckoning abyss. i remember one hairpin turn on a mountain island in greece, looking down at the little hazy becalmed autos in the volcanic ravine. a thrill, yes, a sick thrill. the groin plummeting look down and the gradual easement, leaning back on your heals. the only thing you can do is not jump. but the whole fucking system is getting the push. and it's giddy, but it's like watching death for the moment the other, the actor, packaged and aestheticized, but morphing dreadfully close to leaping out of the screen.