The Long Take moves between cities like it's shrugging off bodies, but NYC felt like the cleanest fit to me. More heart, more mood, more mystery. Once the protagonist hits California, his trauma falls into a stasis, and we linger there until the surprisingly blunted end.

There's no denying Robertson's gorgeous prose, and the sun bleached shadows make for stylish noir, but my heart stayed in the first 50ish pages of the book, even if my mind enjoyed the ride to the final page.

This kind of epic poem is a perfect format for the modern novel - here's hoping people carry it forward, across all genres.

4 +or- .01