Predicting the Next Big Advertising Breakthrough Using a Potentailly Dangerous Method
A><B (A MAD Fold-In Poem)
Light against grass along a riverbed on an early twentieth-century morning of grey clouds without rain. Early twentieth-century traffic—its mixture of hoof beats and engines—is audible but not seen. Pedestrians mingle through early twentieth-century gestures and journeys, some hurried and silent, some exchanging words, others seated polite in laughter along the bank. A FATHER and DAUGHTER in the distance walk a path away from us with backs turned in smart attire. The DAUGHTER holds the right sleeve of her FATHER's jacket with her left hand. Traffic quiets. The FATHER and DAUGHTER are before us now though we still only reach them from behind.
Do you remember who we are meeting today?
For a few steps, the DAUGHTER contemplates this.
I think so, Daddy.
The FATHER stops. The DAUGHTER's momentum carries her forward a half-step further and her hand pulls away from his sleeve. She looks up at him looking down.
Go on then.
There are the apparitions, the faces, the petals . . . .
The DAUGHTER turns a single fingertip against her chin before pointing.
And a bough, a bough that's black and wet.
You've forgotten someone.
The DAUGHTER's hand drops to her side, fingers white against her coat's purple.
Sky-tipped buildings and unlit streetlamps as the FATHER's palm touches the parted middle of his DAUGHTER's hair.
The crowd, darling.
The traffic is all torsion and nearing.
Her hand again holds his sleeve.
The apparitions and those faces are in . . .
. . . the crowd.
In a Station of the Metro
Opens Everywhere This Fall