By TJ Gerlach
(Camouflage no. 11 William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom! in dialog with Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast)
Almost sundown. Another dead-end to another dead afternoon. The whole town beneath the notice of most everything but the sun. Sunset is sunlight hyperdistilled. At its best when crowded with cloudy ghosts.
A place of motorcycles and trucks. Hard-pressed to find a car that wasn’t just passing through. The town locked in by livestock, horses, and cattle, and mules. The far off mountains remain outside the known world, sitting at the horizon like a monastery.