Reading even the opening pages of Zizek's "Violence" was a relief. The pages didn't even go anywhere I hadn't already gone, but it was a relief. It was like opening a basement door from the inside.
I need to think about violence, to "process" it, but I find talking about it is a complicated crashing mash of the too-horrible and the densely theoretical, and that doesn't help anyone (but me).
When I do get an opening, an invitation or something I confuse for an invitation, I rush in recklessly.
Two years. Eighty-five dead. I feel like I should remember all the names. I worry all I have accomplished, with all of this crime writing, is to make myself sad. I worry even more I will stop feeling anything and it will all go away.