Let’s not get into whose father’s face he had, or how sunset through the spare trees lit the oak-panelled bar so splendidly a tin spittoon japanned with roses became a flowerbed with dirt and bees, match cut to a dream sequence of harps. The sheriff is gut-shot, doomed, just strong enough to whisper who made off across the blue plains on two paperweights thumping a phone book (a ring of house keys for stirrups and spurs), towards a camp of crinkling envelopes and not steak, but its sizzle for rain. The undertaking takes place off-screen: sponge and bucket, lather and straight edge. Since no one ever sees the craft, there’s no point pretending my razor isn’t real and sharp. Where wind concentrates in the churchyard I use shovels and earth for shovels and earth. This is how it goes: one day you’re the sheriff running wide-sleeved card cheats out of town, golden hour elbowing the swinging doors. Meanwhile over the ridge, a weather system of opening credits rolls across the sky. Your life, you learn too late, is backstory.
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Beautiful 🤍
"Since no one ever sees the craft, there’s no point
pretending my razor isn’t real and sharp."