I had to pull myself together. A strange expression, one I learned much later, but it perfectly captured my state. I wasn’t a cohesive whole. I was a nebula. I couldn’t even clearly discern the boundaries between what was me and what was no longer me. It had seemed to me earlier—if not clear, then at least increasingly so—but the story of the sound shattered that certainty back into dust.

So I had to pull myself together. Gather myself, find or define some axis, some poles, some north. I had no idea where to begin, but I had time. For now, I made an inventory. A list of events so far, a record of impressions. It didn’t arrange itself into any discernible order. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that some hidden order existed nonetheless. That there was a purpose for which I came into this world. As I was. No matter how repulsive.

I even allowed myself a bolder thought—that I had a duty here. A calling that was simultaneously my redemption. Because of one thing I was certain : I would not avoid guilt and sin.