Upon the scene of a posthumous murder

How inconsequential by day the uneventful sight of a previous night's murder. Stunned, the day itself is lost for words; about the bloodstain on the path and the crushed cartridge it has nothing to say. Yet, such is the nature of the day, it cannot exclude them; it can exclude nothing. And so everything is welcomed -- too quickly, too indiscriminately, too deftly by half. The bloodstain -- well, that is one with the shadows beneath the trees. And the crushed cartridge is just another piece of litter. Everything belongs, declares the day, even the things outside of the day -- they also belong. Even everything that fails to convince, even everything that can never convince -- by daylight these things also belong; they are more than things; they are the reality we share.