The bombs were coming-and so was I.

The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.

Disbelief held me down inside my footsteps, making my body heavy but my heart wild.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

She even touches Jimmy's face on the photos, and I see what it is to love someone like Milla loved that man. Her fingertips are made of love.

When I recollect her, I see a long list of colors, but it's the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity. That's when I see them formulate: THE COLORS RED: [rectangle] WHITE: [circle] BLACK: [swastika] They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.