I've grown up. I'm fitting into my time. I'm part of the new anarchy. I'm a modern man. I can do anything.
Childhood has endless sparkling expectations and a smile as wide as a summer night.
This is what I write. I killed because I wanted something back. Memory recaptures the sensation, words hold it forever on the page, but the deed - Albert Camus said that a man's work is nothing but the long journey to recover the first two or three simple and great images which first gained access to his heart. I've come home. This story is published by The Barcelona Review by arrangement with the author.