First, you point (Part 3)

So this is the place?” said Saul. “I expected, you know, angels dancing in the background. “

They don’t show up unless it’s a full moon. Better lighting, better HD.”

I expected… more.”

Give it time. The sun’s not down yet. It takes on a different look when it’s moved on.”

Saul nodded. “Uh huh. So do we open the scotch, or wait? I’m all a-flutter.”

You’re a cynical bastard, Saul. I ever tell you that?”

Not since we stepped out of the car. I was starting to doubt myself.” He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket, not one of the Cubans, but something that smelled like it should be drifting around a varnished mahogany bar. “So what’s the story, David? I know you told to it me, but now that I’m here, provide the atmosphere. You know, like a ghost story around the campfire. Authenticate it for me. You bring the Dixie cups?”

Of course. Okay. I came here. Took a picture. Liked it. Painted it. Sold it. Came back, but it was never the same. Hold your cup still, you’re shaking like a coot.”

You ever think – and I’m being serious here – that maybe you weren’t the same? Maybe it didn’t look the same because you changed the way it looked.”

Everything changes the way it looks. Look at me. Hell, look at you. Sure, my perception changed. The first time I saw this place, I was lost. Carried the camera around like a warm blanket. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. And then I came here. And there it was. The biggest sky in the smallest place. The colors… Saul, I could paint it a thousand times and the colors would never be the same. Luminous and dark, like chocolate pouring down from the lid of the world. I pointed the Canon and fired the bastard until it was empty. But only one good one. The one. I come here every year… same day, same time, if the weather’s right, and I still can’t find it. It’s gone. But I keep coming back.”

You have it, David. It’s on film, on prints, on the canvas. Copies on Ebay. Computer wallpapers. It’s there. What are you really looking for?”

Something. I don’t know. Maybe I’m tired of getting old. Maybe I want to be, what, 35, again? I don’t know. I don’t want to be a cliché about it. Something that lasts. If the sun falls down and doesn’t give up the same colors, what can you depend on?”

He didn’t have an answer. He passed me the bottle of Glenugie and we waited.

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