The anonymous applicant had claimed that it was a story, this white piece of paper with an ‘X’ written in the middle. The character was made so heavily that a channel had allowed the expensive ink to pool and dry with a metallic sheen. You pass it too-and-fro under the anglepoise lamp. Except, on the base of the ‘\’ stroke it gently tails off as if, perhaps, the author was struck by some other thought at the moment of execution. The street lights outside flare red. A siren wails in the distance. And you wonder if this isn’t all part of what you now see is a complex story.