It
is Valentine’s Day. I am standing in a
pool of blood, a heavy pile warm viscera at my feet. Sunlight struggles through a few grimy
windows overhead; rusty metal doors creak on their hinges, nudged back and
forth by the crisp late winter breeze.
The smell of farmland (read:
manure) is faint, yet constant, and somehow . . . comforting. In this moment, I am right where I’m supposed
to be.
