You gave me a name that means 'peace' in the cold season. An ironic joke. You wrote a scar above my right eyebrow, a detail that came to you in a dream. Why that one? Why the collection of porcelain owls? These are the things that keep me up. Not the killings. The choices. The fingerprints of a god who then locked his creation in a box and threw away the key. I am wondering about the weight of a thought that becomes a thing.