MARTIN HART, 36, in better shape and with darker hair, answers his front door. It opens onto RUSTIN COHLE, 31, smaller, handsome but hard-worn, his shirt and suit disheveled. Bleary-eyed and frightened, he stands on the porch with a cheap BOUQUET in hand.
His dark hair mussed, Rust shakily holds out the bouquet. His face - wet, red eyes, red nose.
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies,
But stranger still is
Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in