There are many dangers in the world. Insurance lures us with the demons of chance to spend the money we should be spending on booze.

There are other dangers:
Danger: To leave Mr. Pineda Gould alone at night with a movie camera and beer.

Sometimes theory gets sickening.
Sometimes quality gets old.
Sometimes songs are brewing,
waiting for a voice and a tune to be told.
And what a sorry excuse for a voice it is.

There are millions of disinterested ears, impatient fragments of unrealized subjectivity out there.
And this is what happens:
A jumble of sounds collapses into a dangerous pattern that resembles a song, a man-child squeals and croons over the mess, resembling a singer, if ever so slightly. Francis Bacon creeps in after Nicholas Ray, a man born in september holds his photographic camera to crippled muses because a head rolled to his feet when he was a child and something smiled in his soul. Something he never effaced.

A table and light. A bottle of beer.

This is just a song, a drinking song, and it might not make a whole lot of sense.
But this is not Robin, it is Johnny Guitar chasing after the corpse of Peggy Lee.

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