A loop of film with no entrance or exit encloses the fears you bring here, to the images here. The loop isn't round; it is twisted and confused, enclosing a interior space that perhaps has several extra dimensions. The loop, feeding now through the projector you see in front of you, has excess that sits in two giant piles of made out of its' single plastic strip, one pile in front of the projector, and another behind. The two are perhaps linked by a channel under the floor. Pictures are pulled up from one pile, dropped down to the other behind. Everywhere in the piles, the strips have coiled in just a half turn, so that front of one part of the strip touches the back of another part, creating a temporary moebius strip. Thousands of these twisted dimensional moments simultaneously confuse the filmstrip piles, making it impossible and inappropriate to roll them back onto reels; somehow in this moebius economy there is always enough slippery slack to allow the uncoiled film to make its way up from the floor to the gate of the projector (as you can see here). The strange-dimensional transition between the strips isn't a cut, but instead a different sort of edit. Images aligned left to right meet their right to left counterpoints, laid accidentally beneath them, and our view passes across this mirror divide, from one frame to the other, across the soft touch of multiple transparencies that connect the unwound film lengths and confuse our sight.     Hive-Maker believed that someday these lights would swarm into our world, to join the living.