(sotto into microphone) My mother’s friend Martin Chong sent her a poem. He’s one of many men who’s in love with her, waiting in line with a number in their hand like at the deli counter. He wrote it on a piece of lacy purple rice paper that I found crumpled in the trash. I think it’s beautiful: Minnie reads from the crumpled paper. Stars start to emanate from Minnie’s bed, floating out into the universe.
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A FLEETING, LOW WHISPER of BLACK SPEECH emanates from the Ring. Frodo looks at Gandalf, each knowing the other has heard it.
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That building wasn't cleared. You hear that? That's the sound of people DYING! Screams emanate from the building. Its upper floors are completely consumed in flame.
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