In the land of the living there are lights and those lights are slowly coming on, one by one in the shuttered stores of my London neighborhood. Used to the dark store fronts, I sometimes want to stop and admire the heads of human beings. I spot them inside as they organize and arrange their establishments, getting ready to open their doors to customers again. This morning a black cat with shining green eyes, much like the lights that emanate from within these dark stores, stood near a tombstone in the cemetery I was walking in. I should feel pleasure in this land that is coming to light, where tables outside cafes sell coffee and pastries. In the cemetery there are flowers and dog walkers, squirrels and bees, cats, birds and weeds. The grass grows tall in some places and sometimes I stop to read names that are almost erased from old stone. In the evening today while walking in the park, a red helicopter hovered close to the tree tops, finally descending unto the skatepark stirring up dust and leaves and the interest of people. While leaving later with my children on scooters, they tell me how a boy had fallen from a tree. An ambulance, police cars, a red helicopter. Objects mark the land of the living. My heart is heavy like a stone for a boy in a park for whom these vehicles waited. In America a man could not breathe. A knee on his neck till the lights went out.