Once upon a time, there was a man whose mother was murdered by two brothers. He had a very messy library, with books scattered on the floor that weighed so much he could never manage to put them back in their place.
After much thought, the man gathered his courage: he tracked down where the brothers lived, bought a knife, and sneaked into their house at night. He found the first one sleeping and silently slit his throat. Instantly, he felt something align inside him, as if his library were a little tidier.
The door to the next room was ajar. The second brother was snoring. The man approached, drove the knife through his eyes, and pushed it all the way in. As he did so, he thought that, upon returning home, all the books would finally be on their shelf.
He arrived, opened the library door, and it wasn't true. The previous books had been lifted, yes, but now there were new ones scattered on the floor. They were his own books. I am a murderer, he thought. I have killed two men.
After much thought, he returned to the store, this time for a rope. He went to the nearest bridge, tied it to the railing, slipped it around his neck, and jumped.
He believed that, at last, not a single book would remain on the floor.
It was not so. He opened his eyes and the books kept falling, hundreds, thousands of them: the pieces of life he had torn from others, the pieces of life their loved ones would never get back.
He could no longer fix it.
Never.
