We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.
A mystery novel localizes the awesome force of the real death outside the book, winds it tightly in a plot.
The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you've killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it's ordinary murder.
A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.
Longing on a large scale makes history.
The more things I threw away, the more I found.