The son of the slain man stands over the slain - feeling his power, like his father's killer before him. His gun at his side -blood on his boots. Somewhere, his victim's child becomes him. The daughter of a**ault must walk, alone, from the train. The same dark streets, her father's former place. Only once did she not make it home. It took one night to lose the race. Drawing over perceived portraits, exit the sound of wind. Enter strange silence, like sleep after violence, while satisfied sleep, too deep to forget, still makes real of the imagined. The son of the son of the slain man is slain. His killer was born by blasts from two guns. The third wife to weep sees pain build in her son. A man hires six men to kill his great-grandson. The granddaughter of a**ault hears laughter. She wonders how to make that sound. Her voice has been built to be soft and silent. Horrors, taught to fear, will be found.