The patron leaned against the temple wall, fondling a smoke between wooden fingers, his eyes like a stenciled eclipse. Something poisoned his figure, maybe his bent shadow, or personage, the way he skinned the dirt road with his boot, or the smoking barrel of a pistol with a history of putting bodies six feet under a lead rose smiling in his coat pocket. Whatever it was didn't bother him. It only disturbed the backdrop, like a needling feeling in a room that raises hairs.
Conscience. An art conserved for the critically-acclaimed and damned.
"You understand- how delicate this is- a surgery- you strip sinew from bone, a tumor from flesh."
"Is understanding perquisite for action?"
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