Sullivan had her Crucifix Soldier and now I have mine. No. I am the soldier. Teacup is the cross.

The beautiful wooden board on a stand in my father’s study. The gleaming ivory pieces. The stern king. The haughty queen. The noble knight. The pious bishop. And the game itself, the way each piece contributed its individual power to the whole. It was simple. It was complex. It was savage; it was elegant. It was a dance; it was a war. It was finite and eternal. It was life.

Poets never die, I thought. They just fail in the end.

Done to death by slanderous tongues

Death without dread of death is welcome death

A detective sees death in all the various forms at least five times a week.