Death. What is death?
Is it that moment where everything becomes over-exposed. Your vision blurs and your mind flashes to memories that you once felt were beautiful. What is beauty?
The comfortable village of Orwell, surrounded by vast, green fields. This obscure village, was the place I called home.
The gentle brushing of leaves in the summer… the sky so vivid it felt like it was falling, the whole village teeming with life and energy. The houses pretty, the neighbours friendly. This village was the perfect place to live.
However, last autumn, that all changed, for what once was safe, has reflected your insanity.
We have changed our script as we decided not to film at night. We orignially had a poem that was written about the night, and i have cut the script and written to replace it. I will speak the script to find out how long it is, and compare that with how long the rough-cut film is.
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