The scene opens mid-sentence—
blood already drying on the dialogue.
No establishing shot, no mercy,
just a cigarette burning itself to death
in an ashtray shaped like California.
He says he’s done.
Yeah—done like a revolver with one round left,
done like a jukebox that only plays heartbreak
and B-sides nobody remembers
until they’re bleeding out on tile floors.
“Quitting,” he says again,
like it’s a clean word,
like it doesn’t drag chains behind it—
film reels, severed timelines,
women with vengeance in their eyes
and men who talk too much before they die.
The camera circles him, slow—predatory.
You expect a twist.
There’s always a twist.
But nothing flips.
No trunk pops open.
No hero walks out of the fire.
Just silence—
long, uncomfortable,
the kind you don’t trust.
Because in his world,
nobody really quits.
They monologue.
They reload.
They come back wearing different suits
and call it something else.
So when he drops the word “quitting,”
it lands like a bad line reading—
too neat, too final.
And somewhere off-screen,
a record needle scratches,
waiting—
for him to change his mind.
Find xanthium' squeeze in a sigh
asking a righteous void, hear my entreat
hand to heart, in a beggar's sky
not just for myself,
not just for why...
Can a heart devoid of hope
seek to find salvation
from a Quentin Tarantino film
in a strange pulp voice
that sounded just like mine.
Your sin, my sins
vowed never relent..
nor let cementing cold take you
so don't despair..
Place two fingers, just beside your neck
feel it pulse?
it's you,
and you still care.
Search the world's underbelly
the meek and mild
little mouse infirm, the whooping crane strong, all us
no longer beguiled.
Roaming streets and back alleys
afraid to meet my neighbor's eye
I, the guilty
waiting a just reply.
It's a quarter past two,
last train leaves at three..
the sign at the platform's final end
stands glaring,
waiting a reprieve.
A proud primping Whooping crane calls out
'it's justice'..
All a lowly titmouse discerns,
'it's just us'.
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