perfect endings (i)

 

One of the faces I love most in the world.
Martin Donovan when he was young.
Why are the faces we love also the ones that haunt us? There is memory of rain, particular rain, past-eleven in the morning rain, in all the faces I love. Being able to remember the exact light, the exact feel of the fake-marble cheap table under my hand. The cheap coffee. The exact light. Rain smells of the pavement it falls on. It's grey.
The needless tragic ending of Amateur. Which is not to say it's not a perfect ending. It's perfect because it didn't have to be tragic. The randomness of its tragic outcome is what makes it perfect. What makes it tragic. It's not the blood, it's not the death. It's the fact that there could have been not-death, not-blood.