Like a girl in a museum I'm drawn to his pictures. Those inadequate reproductions, hypnotize me.
Pictures, what do they have to give? Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look. They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy, full of endless secrets that can never be told.
A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars rushing, rushing... somewhere.
Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so? A flash of light, the tearing of metal like the screaming of dogs in a devouring dance of energy.
The nuclear family detonating with death inches away.
Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?" "I don't know." 7 year old me said.
The family man leaving a gravestone like a calling card.
Sometimes, just before I fall asleep, memories of him - which I hold dear - come to me like the ghosts of departed friends. Image after image in the embracing dark.
Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?
Those images and that voice are strangely silent in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened to a world I'd rather reassemble.