Sorehead

I was arrested because of that internal memo, and ended up in a cell, then I was told to sit with the police and the local bigwigs. In the hushed and fast darkening room they said someone—someone—had reduced the safety margin on the airport risk factor, and I got the blame. The sky that day was a pale, clear blue, but that was happening outside, and far away. The cop on duty would not open the tomb of the deported—sorry, departed—and as usual he had a story. Every movie, he said, depends on a script, and the narrative grows out of market research: a set of standard deviations. Art? What would they know? Open the tomb, and let me in.