Sometimes I get like this. I am sure that my existence is a tragic mistake, that I have come into this body and will leave it without a trace. I don’t know why I was born.
Under such conditions of abject hopelessness, my mind sometimes helps by offering clues, a trail of bread crumbs to follow through the dark forest. Just in time, it conjures an image, a black and white snapshot taken in the summer of 1946. I haven’t seen it in years. I hold this unexpected message, this hieroglyph, before my mind’s eye.
