He finds himself sitting in a strange room surrounded by firecracker explosions, unsustainable highs, men with guns hidden behind waistbands and shirts. Sitting in that room, waiting for what seems like an imminent, inevitable, violent end, he disappears into the last 5 years—through a keyhole he sees it—the first half, the good half coaxes a smile that dissolves into the second half and lost eyes find a narrowing range of options and an expanding sense of desperation. Time to go.
