Yesterday, you lay on a bathroom floor as the sun rose over New York. Arms gone purple and sprawled on the cool tile, veins too full to push the blood now thick and cold and littered with mud. With eyes left open, your mouth hung cracked as if to speak but nothing remained. Your lips dried out. Approaching footsteps would determine your true life. Your story.
Today, your name on a moving train as the sun rises over London. Printed loudly across millions of slung and discarded papers which line the seats. Your face reflects in the blackened windows as in the eyes of strangers. Pages boast of scripts and statues. And as your children weep, the audience turns the page.