He needs a shot of salvation, taste of the sacrosanct, to get through the ends of the day. Those moments when he’s left with only himself and his thoughts. Survival’s the thing people find difficult. Living on a knife’s hard edge, tilting over and trying to fall, convinced of complete betrayal of existence.
Western Swing on the transistor: right or wrong, I’ll always love you; I’ll get mine bye and bye. The deluge of the moment that doesn’t quite cut clean. It festers and spreads, a pestilence no quarantine can hold. Memories he cannot escape. Like the tangle of their bodies, it never had that sort of finality.