torsdag den 10. marts 2011
A man sits in front of a grave. He is alone. He clutches a red, wilted rose. As his body shakes with quiet sobbing, a petal tears itself loose. It falls on the white marble slab set into the ground. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, the man brushes the petal away. His hand brushes the engraved letters, and memories come flooding back. The pain makes him ball his hand into a fist. He thumps the slab of marble. It hurts. He thumps it again. The pain is good. It makes him forget. He thumps it harder, leaving a smear of blood.