Marcello Mastroianni in
the woods. That is what was needed: the handsome romantic, who nevertheless
chooses to play the fool, because he is so much better at it, because that is
what is inside him. This is what the woods needed and this is what Davos
needed. But this was not Franco. Or it was, a bit, the jokey woodsman, the
glancing forester. With his thirst slaked, hunger fell upon him. The cheese in
the sandwich that he fished out of his backpack repulsed him, reminding him of
the herd of steer being led down a mountain path, unsure of why they were in
the mountains to begin with, strangely out of place, it seemed, just as the
lactating cows on the beach seemed not to belong, but why? Cows to pasture,
cougars to the hills? Is that the way it was or was supposed to be? Mountain
lions sneak into the cities looking for water now. Where were the cows supposed
to be? Flatlanders always? What about horses, always the plains?
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