At 55, I met my father for the first time. I knew at once, I was the source of his pain. His deepest regret.

At 72, I began to ponder my accursed existence. Who am I? What is my purpose? Why are my arteries exposed?

At 107, I discover the truth. This body was never mine. Skin...bones...organs... My wretched father had stolen them from the graves of others.

At 132, I slowly tighten my brutish, yellow hands around his wife's throat.
Until, at 133, I kill her.

Finally, at 176, with torch in hand, I see my father for the last time.

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