I enter the cinema from a society that obscures class, venerates wealth, villainizes poverty.

I sit in the chair, and a film begins on the screen, and as the film progresses, I feel that I am being handed a heavy, exquisitely-wrapped gift.

I open the gift carefully. It is a clockwork diorama with a wind-up key, made of highly-polished copper. When wound, it depicts ten people in a house, swerving and dancing around one another. The mechanism must be impossibly complex; the full span of the action takes two hours to complete.

In the space of those two hours, the machine-diorama's purpose becomes evident: it is reveals the striations of class, exposes the complacency of wealth, allows a clearer view of the desperation of poverty. It is didactic to its most basic machinery. And yet it entertains.

When I return to the obscurant society that made me, my mind is equipped with a clockwork machine that demonstrates what is. Once in a great while, a Parasite comes along, and I must marvel at the power of clockmakers.

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