I was reading Wittgenstein when all three were killed on the viaduct. A picture shrine and flowers on three of the four corners at the intersection by my house. When the phone rang I was alone in a small room. There is a bill I cannot pay. Even when my eyes burn I do not turn off the television. I am also reading Wittgenstein. Blue light fills my mind and in walks Ludwig Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein, how to contemplate their death and intertwine Ludwig Wittgenstein? And now I’m driving or phoning. At least always driving and planning on driving and turning towards the viaduct, and reaching for the phone and cocking it between my ear and shoulder and looking and changing lanes, getting across and moving towards an exit. And I use my horn on these poor sods who can get out of the way of nothing. O Nothing, and my poor dead Ludwig Wittgenstein. I’m thinking about driving into Ludwig Wittgenstein and through his beautiful mind and I shall paint the walls in primary colours and as my car disappears it will be clear that I fly on—gentle through the fields of Ludwig Wittgenstein. Dear Wittgenstein, kiss me home and tell me how to make sense of the viaduct, the lotus field and the flicker of blue in my small room. I love you, my idea of Ludwig Wittgenstein. People like ants disassemble the viaduct. There is a song being composed on guitar. There is a photograph in the newspaper and the headline reads “family killed on the viaduct.” I’m driving through the city and towards their hometown. North towards the trees and light. In my mind there is a motif I’m trying to remember involving the relationship between nature and the thoughts of Ludwig Wittgenstein but all I remember is that it was as beautiful as rain, or the idea of rain, as one drives through the snapping of epiphany brought by Wittgenstein. The song will be sung, and jingle through the minds of mourners, public and private. For this death, I will be both, driving towards their hometown and also in the grocery line publicly staring at their portrait in the paper. I will gather butter and olives. Cream for my skin. I will smell the fire roasted pepper and I will taste cheese from the goat. At home I will recycle the paper. I will move to the living room and reread my notes on Ludwig Wittgenstein. I will sing the song and make sense of the viaduct. I will take gin in a plastic cup.