Packing up to move on again, I unload my old dresser drawer. Digging through the strata of another life, and all the layers, dust from some distant moon. cheesy poem for my first love, birthday cards from my old friends, the journal that I kept in Scotland, and a small black stone that I found on the beach. I was saving it to give to someone, give someone that black stone heart. 

Who's that boy? Who's that boy in the picture? Who's that boy in these letters? I don't know where he may have been buried, and I don't know why that boy had to die but he did. Did I? 

The first painting I ever did, years ago, I was just a kid. The diary where I kept my [bad word]  and the small black stone shaped like a heart that I found at the beach. I threw it away. Threw it all away. Threw every fragment of simpler times, and I took that boy, I kneeled him down, put the gun up to his head... 

Who're those boys, who're those kids on the TV? Who're those girls, who're those kids in the paper? I don't know where they may have been buried, and I don't know why they all have to die but they do. They all die. All kids die. We kill them.