Vaguely aware of his own room on the second floor of the spacious home, of class-consciousness that seems effortless and spontaneous to a child born flush with money, though it does little to combat lonely days, and of troublesome neighborhood friendships, being young in an old world bent on confusing love and hatred. He was, is, there in the needs of a little body, and in the space of his and the world’s wraithy, adolescent constructions. Straight Dutch bangs would hover over his eyelids when he averted your gaze; wide collar, flared little pants in the presence of tiny demons. Or strangers in supermarkets. The turntable a black device downstairs, in the playroom, though his few albums lived with him on a shelf next to the bed. Posters imprinted and reflected the boy, a child alone, imagining toward surfaces. On this particular night, on the darker side of dusk, his father stepped into the bedroom with a black book, a tape recorder, and his thick, handsome mustache. Would you like a story before bed? He turned out the lights, burned a candle for reading atmosphere, sat beside his son, he pressed RECORD and read.