Whenever I think about where my life began, where it really began, it always seems to stem back to that twisted assembly behind the house, with its red metallic walls and flat roof made out of junkyard tin. The path to where I am now harks back to what was encountered, revealed and ultimately unleashed from within. It was there I first learned what death really is, it was there I grasped the enormity of its permanence, and I can't help but think perhaps it could have all been avoided had I not engaged on the path towards discovery. But I know now, deep down inside I know, that the horror to ensue truly began long before in a chain of events of which I had no part. Well yes, at one point I would have a role to play, sure, but the blood that would flow was in truth catalyzed by the actions, or perhaps inactions, of others. That is, at least, what I tell myself.