• Wearing no mask, only the immobile face of a broken man. Lounging on the floor of a motel, arms and ammo laid aside. Ethereal fingers casually claw towards the ceiling, but you have to wonder whether they're from the barrel on the table or the cherry that must be burning his motionless hand. A smile touches his lips. You know it's real. Your feet are still glued in the doorway but something's mingling with lingering grey tendrils above you both - your smile touching his lips. The taste of saline. A song of how we would prattle on without sorrow. His head turns. He must see it too... He must taste it too... He must want it too... If you could only see how he's smiling at you. But by his ears, he is beckoned by another tune, dreaming of the taste of saline until the smoke clears.