March 9, 2014 [True Detective, season 1]
Where does the detective find faith? In the Golden Age, they looked for it at the bottom of a bottle or in the eyes of a suddenly dead friend—and it seems it's still hiding there, or thereabouts—and if you wander inches from it all you smell is that sharp living stink in a shotgun barrel—or you flounder into the high grass and feel the mud suck your shoes off and you fall into thorns and helpless screams. The two detectives eventually move like loose chainsaws, deadman's feature broken, spinning on the concrete of a locked garage in the dark. Somewhere around episode 4 of True Detective I worried about the dreams I'd have, abandoned by those faces I'd trusted many times before, even their names—McConaughey and Harrelson—sounding like snarled baling wire cutting into my ankles as I fall in the hallway of the devil's house, meat and teeth strewn across my path. We saw where they were and what that had made them become, and it worked at me something awful until I vowed
