They found him wandering the butterfly museum, wearing nothing but a pair of Oxford button-downs and clasping half a crackled Moleskine to his belly. His gait was a mad laugh he made with his toes. I saw him on camera hissing at the cockroaches and sipping quail yolks from their shells.

He died an hour later. They buried him twenty miles away. The mother put his last words on the headstone.

The difference between the word and almost another word is the difference between beef soup and the boiled cabbage.

I asked her about it later. She did it partly out of love, and partly out of spite.