Heat

There is something special that happens in plinko when the ball drops and weaves through all the right nails and that final drop into the middle hole gives a pulsating release. There is something that happens when you putt from across the green and that little dirigible follows a trace set out for it from beyond the veil. It rolls up and down, curving just so slightly and it just drops in. No matter how obscure or specific, no matter what field or pursuit, when something just starts harmonising with the parabolas in-between the seconds, when it starts singing a perfect pitch chord, the curtain lifts for just a moment. Just long enough to get a glimpse of that throbbing aurora. Everything else falls away and for a second you see clearly. Pacino holding De Niros hand as their great game comes to an end. Nothing will last, but they got to live and die in the jungle. They gave each other that. Whats Tom without Jerry. Pacino knows it too. They got to skate the edge together like all the Hannibals and Scipios before them. So while it is De Niro who crosses over, the Pacino who's been chasing him dies too. Pacino's got to figure out whats left.