எல்லா தவறான கேள்விகளும்

Who pulled the trigger?

It's cold outside. The night love died. On the night you murdered love…

This neighborhood isn't what it used to be. The harbor quarter has flooded the city. Dark corners and backstreets. Whitaker Lane is wet and dirty now. And the wind brings a salty and rotten smell from the bay.

A shot echoes through the skyscraper canyons.

I am hiding behind an overflowing dumpster.

A group of men in a shadowy twilight surrounding a motionless figure lying on the floor.

A hoarse voice growling, Who pulled the trigger?

A gloved back of hand hitting a cheek.

But, boss. One of the men kneels down whining.

You killed him, the hoarse voice is whispering. I wasn't done with him. He knew where the dude is, for sure, but couldn't tell.

Another gunshot is tearing up the silence. Another body lying dead on the floor.

Clean up, the hoarse voice commands. And get rid of the witness behind that dumpster…

పన్నెండవ జూలై రెండు వేల పదిహేడు

There are people standing on the hills. Standing perfectly still. Watching. Pale white people in long white floating robes. Motionless watchers on the hills. A fool on the hill? I drove all night but I didn't get a step closer to where I was going to. Are they real people? Do I always have to question everything? The people look like storks to me, long-legged wading birds with white and black plumage. White at the tops, black at the bottoms. And uh... those red legs. Tonight on the foggy hills they look more like birds of prey scanning the surroundings for... well... prey ready to attack and to sink their sharp beaks deep into innocent flesh. Beware little rabbits and mice! The watchers are watching you! The whaters are whating you and me...

เจ็ดเดือนกรกฎาคมพันเจ็ดสิบเจ็ด

Something Old.

Something New.

If You Borrow It You Won't Feel Blue.

Never seen a sadder thing than clothes drying on a line getting wet again in the pouring rain...