About the idiot
There either is or is not a 'way things are.' The color of the day. The way it felt to be a child. The saltwater on your sunburned legs. Sometimes the water is yellow, sometimes it’s red. But what color it may be in memory depends on the day. I’m not going to tell the story the way that it happened. I’m going to tell it the way I remember it (with swear words). . . I was murdered by Jeff Buckley in 1994.