For these past months I've been trying to write the factual events surrounding my grandfather's death. I've not had the courage to do so. I cannot bear to suffer; I am fragile this way. But I now think it is not because I cannot write it, no. There are some stories one can write, but one does not, because such stories are not fit on paper. Such stories are not fit in a book, to be tucked in with the others in a shelf. Ink is not how it should be felt, but through voice. The ink of the story of what happened runs through me; my skin is the page, and I am a living manuscript. You can read the story by asking me. Your eyes becomes your ears, and after I tell you, you yourself will become a copy, my voice searing in you somewhere a secret, something cherished and mundane.