the bullet finds its way to the gun. The bullet sleeps soundly in sulfur-stenched steel, dreaming of shattered bones and bullseyes, until it is awoken into the world of bloodsport. If only this could be a story told in reverse. Victims shedding lifelessness to, once again, step into the unbruised breath of the alive. The dark moons that are their eyes, brightening. The staticky radio waves that are their final words, grace singing. Death’s eternal gravity overpowered by love’s labor, rising.