On that night, the sound of the trumpet came from the attic. It lingered bitterly and doggedly, as it puckered your lips and pricked at your hair like an impatient crow. The ceiling above me creaked as it exhaled, and with it, a haunting cry came from the room across me. I had yet again found myself captive of remorse all godly and disfiguring, cheered on by those who have crawled carrying shame upon their shoulders. My love for her was humiliating. I could feel in on my fingertips, like stubborn dirt under my nails, spilling from my mouth any time it opened. Next dawn, too, the sound came from the attic. That’s where my father used to work in the mornings. He was meticulous in all things. He worked slowly, moving his hands as in a prayer. When I was little, I would sit beside him and watch him carefully. He always hummed the same tune, silent but intoxicating, like the cries of sirens luring sailors to their drowning. I too have been a sailor, I too have followed your cries childishly, holding my palms upon my eyes, like an animal starving for its bait.
