Writing about a violence that is so steady as to become part of a daily tradition, I can’t actually say with any certainty that I know much of what I’m writing, Like a fog lifting at the foot of the bed where ghosts pace the wedding floor and at last lie down next to the corpse with a mind toward murdering love. I am estranged from such things, but only by the thinnest of threads, all that’s needed for such detachment. Surely it is in all of us, this devil-dog… Men have always written of immense suffering, But few have written about their own crime and, if they have, it didn't change the future. The truth slices into them in due course, I suppose. For thousands of years an unspoken suffering, huddled in smoky corners, bent in darkness, struggling to stand and unfetter its chains has tried to drive a stake between love and violence, even you have lain down with your bones and Tried to assemble a new man, new beast carved from the same frame, the same ragge...
(The Weaver's Song)