Yeah, why not? Picture a crime caper where every gunshot is a line break, the silence a stutter, the dialogue a rhythm. The camera would be a strobe to the beat, and I'd probably write it in a smoky room while the actors perform. It's a punchy, poetic kind of thing that makes the story feel like a slow‑burning verse.

I can picture it now—like a jazz club on the edge of a dead end, each beat a gunshot, every breath a line of dialogue, the whole thing dripping with that kind of slow‑burn tension that makes you think you’re reading a poem while your ears are firing. It’d be a slick, broken‑up script, like a script that’s also a limerick—dangerous, poetic, and a little bit of the universe’s own punchline.