Think of Marston as the human embodiment of negative space—like the vase framed by two faces, you know: a person consisting only of the spaces around him. To the point that it makes no sense to describe the man, only his surroundings. Here’s a morning: sour-gold sweat stains in his mattress; wire-rimmed glasses, car keys, empty beer cans on the floor beside his nightstand. A granular waterfall of Eggo crumbs tumbling below the seat of a pickup truck. Arms raised in incoherent indication...
