the Palace Brothers

I FLEW TO NASHVILLE. It rained a lot in my hotel room. The room filled with rain as a lung fills with air. The rain looked like sweat on the body I hired to dance before me, which shimmied with a twang and left the way a river is said to crest. On my bed, I prayed, paced between the coils, and sang “No Man Is an Island” to myself as the waters rose, a song for which I know neither words nor tune. It was a tuneless singing I did as it rained in my room in Nashville, and I rewrote War and Peace between the storms.

Streets in Nashville were desolate, storefronts downtown desolate. Desolation seemed to be a theme. I had drinks in a revolving restaurant 28 stories up: 360° of overlook turning around. I didn’t go to the men’s room until the men’s room came to me.

Leaving Nashville on the evening flight, my steward looked like departure.

Will Oldham is the winsome kiddo responsible for Palace, a

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