It was day, but the light had the ashtray color of stale fog. He's a writer, so the whiskey bottle next to him stands as empty as the page in front of him. You have to read these words fast, like feet tapping the beetle tattoo in Cats. You're thinking about tap-dancing and T. S. Eliot because this is Thirteenth Floor Dance Theater presenting a choreographed drama about detective fiction writer Raymond Chandler called Being Raymond Chandler. It's supposed to look like film noir, so there's gotta be some dames and goons involved. It's highly sympathetic: writers with writer's block. Sometimes the characters move about, not speaking because the energy they had for dialogue got shifted into dancing. It's probably going to be a little bit funny, this show, like trying to go to the laundromat and winding up in a dark room with a bunch of strangers plastered to upholstered seats.