David Leitch (2017)
A cold war can have rising temperatures. When fighting is no longer televised, it usually runs amuck in the undergrounds. Soldiers trade in uniforms for wires, and ammunition for information. When terrorism hides, spies dance. Loraine waltzes cautiously through a town split by an iron divide. She was sent to extract hard data, but then again maybe she wanted to come here all along.
Loraine has a kiss of death and many suitors. Being a maiden of her own will, she protests aggressively and has the skills to resist. High heels become lethal in her palms, and lipstick doubles as urban camouflage. She is a student of her environment and commissions the most unlikely weapons.
Her partner, David, passes from being reluctant to being obstructive. She acknowledges his handsome operations, but barks at his careful composure. A tedious game of cat and cat ensues, and claw marks rip into each other's confident facades.
Espionage unfolds like a cracking ice sheet on a pond. Very slow all the way until the critical moment, then all the weak points sojourn to the barrier's demise. Loraine watches this deterioration, sunk at the bottom of the pond. She is in the information business, and her competitors have caught all the gossip. Her battered bones attest to brutality of discovering intel a moment too late.
In this foreign pool of entropy, she entwines herself with Delphine, a poet turned informant. Delphine speaks in prose, but observes in stanzas. Rarely enthused, Loraine is tackled by this woman's fearless ignorance. They find themselves wrapped in a mortal coil, a professional love with ulterior motives. Even the purest connection must be scrutinized when your head contains lethal secrets.
Privileged knowledge breeds death. "Top secret" folders are the plagues of elitism. Chairmen look for red flags, but their agents have painted their entire existence red. Uncertainty is a government's biggest fear, and their employees carry out terrorism in the name of obscurity.
A cold war can have rising temperatures. When fighting is no longer televised, it usually runs amuck in the undergrounds. Soldiers trade in uniforms for wires, and ammunition for information. When terrorism hides, spies dance. Loraine waltzes cautiously through a town split by an iron divide. She was sent to extract hard data, but then again maybe she wanted to come here all along.
Loraine has a kiss of death and many suitors. Being a maiden of her own will, she protests aggressively and has the skills to resist. High heels become lethal in her palms, and lipstick doubles as urban camouflage. She is a student of her environment and commissions the most unlikely weapons.
Her partner, David, passes from being reluctant to being obstructive. She acknowledges his handsome operations, but barks at his careful composure. A tedious game of cat and cat ensues, and claw marks rip into each other's confident facades.
Espionage unfolds like a cracking ice sheet on a pond. Very slow all the way until the critical moment, then all the weak points sojourn to the barrier's demise. Loraine watches this deterioration, sunk at the bottom of the pond. She is in the information business, and her competitors have caught all the gossip. Her battered bones attest to brutality of discovering intel a moment too late.
In this foreign pool of entropy, she entwines herself with Delphine, a poet turned informant. Delphine speaks in prose, but observes in stanzas. Rarely enthused, Loraine is tackled by this woman's fearless ignorance. They find themselves wrapped in a mortal coil, a professional love with ulterior motives. Even the purest connection must be scrutinized when your head contains lethal secrets.
Privileged knowledge breeds death. "Top secret" folders are the plagues of elitism. Chairmen look for red flags, but their agents have painted their entire existence red. Uncertainty is a government's biggest fear, and their employees carry out terrorism in the name of obscurity.
final words:
TRUST IS LETHAL