Let’s begin with things: a chair, maybe; a table; a computer sitting on the floor waiting for someone to come along and lift it up and push the right buttons, anything to make it useful again. After we’ve catalogued everything, we’ll sift through, looking for something with meaning. Maybe there’ll be a note, an explanation. We’ll grow tired and sloppy. We’ll miss things. The only certainty in the room is the blood pooled in the carpet, the smell of determination. Now, let’s go home to our beds and dream of dead men, of desperation, of suicide.