Nothing winged, nothing consisting of hair or teeth or blisters. In the corner of a basement room a tear fell from the ceiling. Sad coupling ensued. It was the end of a long day at the foundry and the heat had taken its toll on the both of you. The diesel generator sat motionless in the dark. It would be days before the story of the killing made sense to anyone. It had been a cold month, to be sure, and the diesel generator had been indispensable. Images of it cluttered the landscape. Several winding paths ended at the base of the diesel generator. Here, even light succumbed to gravity. The rest was history. The rest was a study in trajectories.