L had been living on his own since sixteen, the year he was disowned by his family – his father, to be specific – after a neightbour caught him and her son, one afternoon, doing “dirty things” in her bedroom. In his rage, L’s father hurled a statue of Guan Yin at his son. The porcelain thing (made in China) shattered when it hit the wall, missing the vital parts of L. L’s mother swept up the pieces afterward, when she was done with the weeping. L’s father had grown tired of his own pointless tirade of blame and accusations – “a useless woman” etc. – he locked himself in the bathroom because that was where real men wept strong, silent tears. At night L dreamt of toilets flushing while his lover slept, its symphonic permutations.