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in a way you stood out, - but i also was aware - of your story, in that sense. i ll read something from this that kind of speaks to the moment of my father s murder, i suppose, but also tries to reckon with an aftermath, and it s sort of an aftermath which is endless, really. my father rejoices. that s what it means, my name, i mean, but did he? what, if anything, was the source of hisjoy? was there joy between us before he left or after he walks through the hall, the squeaky door saddle, across the tiles, walking outside, into the morning, into those bullets sailing through the blue air, into perforation, into a heap, into gravel, an almost

Squeaky door saddleWalking outsideInto perforationBlue air