The hand wrests control from my brain and begins to move in ways wholly self-determined, a deadly series of straight lines, and after I hurl the first light to the ground I can’t stop it, no, not when Elba screams, the cliffs of her face crumbling into a conquered Etruscan sea, not when she beats her hands on the fire blossoming on the carpet, not when, at last, she drops her parents’ picture onto the floor, collapsing over it with palms pressed together as if in prayer.