As you noted, one doesn't write, luminously, on a dark field; the alphabet of stars alone does that, sketched or interrupted; man writes black upon white.
This fold of dark lace, which holds the infinite, woven by thousands, each according to his own thread or extension, not knowing the secret, assembles distant spacings in which riches yet to be inventoried sleep: vampire, knot, foliage; and our job is to present them. -- Stéphane Mallarmé
As Friedrich Kittler wrote of this passage, "For letters, this is empty white paper; in another case, the mirror-image transposition of writing, it is the empty black sky." For Mallarmé, ink sunk into fibrous paper; for us, now, light through liquid crystals. That is, this is: not deus ex pagina, but Mallarmé ex pagina — a reanimation of Mallarmé's jottings for the screen.
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