Love, joy, intimacy, and the dance floor - the raw materials of youth, unripe — all of them universal and personal in the same instant. We were all there, dragging our feet on the way home as dawn breaks on the horizon. Who doesn't love that? How can you not love love?

434 days ago, a person who grew up beside me — same high school, same football team — Hapoel Jerusalem, same pubs in the city centre — a person who grew up and went to a party and didn't come back.

He was violently abducted, and for months, his family, our community, an entire nation did everything to bring him home.

104 days ago, he was executed. Only later did we discover that his name had been on the release list when the ceasefire was supposed to take effect. He was on a list. We were on a list.

I had already moved to London when it happened, which left me with 250 useless stickers his sister had given me to put up on the streets of London — his face, his name — perhaps they were always meant to cover these distant streets. But they sit in a drawer I cannot open.

This series began with those stickers. Buried there as a reminder: it could have been any one of us. Living testimony to the fact that some of us went to a party 434 days ago and still haven't come home.