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CHEKHOV'S GUN
Nothing ever absolutely has to happen. The gun
doesn't have to be fired. When our hero sits
on the edge of his bed contemplating the pistol
on his nightstand, you have to believe he might
not use it. Then the theatre is sunk in blackness.
The audience is a log waiting to be split open. The faint
scuff of feet. Objects are picked up, shuffled away.
Other things are put down. Based on the hushed sounds
you guess: a bed, some walls, a dresser. You feel
everything shift. You sense yourself being picked up,
set down. A cone of light cracks overhead. The audience's
eyes flicker toward you like droplets of water.
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