his chatter stops, his focus is intense and sudden. he holds the bat strangely, with a split grip, a left- handed batter, he dangles the bat almost parallel to the ground. for all his fierceness, there's a delicacy in the way he holds the bat. a baton, a paintbrush, a magic wand.
he smiles.
he accelerates with vengeance.
his face looks terrible, drawn, drained.
his eyes are full of fury and lust.
asleep. even in sleep, dying, he is twitching and full of fragments of unspent energy.
he's still disoriented by the "film" he's seen, but the applause brings him back, and -- the orchestra plays "sweet georgia brown" to cobb's raised arms. cut to:
sweating, pale, hanging on. a grim smile.
he reads page one slowly and carefully, then starts mov- ing through the box full of odd sizes of paper, hotel stationery, cocktail napkins, legal pads, all handwritten in secret. he keeps glancing up at the bed where stump is in the deep stupor of sleep.
rage is in his eyes. he cocks the gun.
he's crying. he shakes his head.
as he stares into the mirror.