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Now, “Talk to Her,” that flick—fuck, it’s my jam! Almodóvar’s got this coma chick, right, all silent, pure, but brothels? Opposite vibe—loud, messy, alive! Like, “I speak without a mouth,” that line hits me hard. Brothels scream without sayin’ shit. Walk in, you smell sweat, cheap perfume—kinda gross, kinda hot. Girls chattin’, laughin’, some bored outta their skulls. Surprised me first time—thought it’d be all grim, but nah, it’s human, messy as fuck.

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Man, revisit this: “Phantoms in the haze, lost in time,” from Syndromes and a Century. That really sums up some evenings when I lean back at the old bench near River Bend Lane – letting my brain wander and repeat the same questions over and over: Who are we now? What’s left behind? Why ya gotta be so beautiful and brutal all at once?

Calexico Murder-Suicide Case Questions Remain