Violence

For a period of time I'd reach out and then twin spectres of my hands would reach out past my fingers to destroy Midas-like everything I touched. I'd put out my hands to pet my cat, and there, in front of me, two additional hands would reach out, carefully cradle the back of her head in their fingers and then these hands would drive their thumbs deep into her eyes. She would scream in pain, but that sound would come later, like thunder, an afterthought.

And then, petting her head and listening to her purr, I'd become disturbed at the enormous potential in everything.

I remember seeing a show down at the Kits Showboat, before I was scheduled to perform. It was some kind of decorative martial arts. The dancer floated around the stage, her fans whirling, opening and closing like butterflies. The cheerful man announced that everything, if used right, could become a weapon. Anything. Even a fan. And with that her dance came to an end in a single violent motion. It was beautiful.

How does that make sense? There's no beauty in violence, only hurt.

I can hear someone outside right now. He has a rich, low, familiar sounding voice, the sort that you want to climb up and curl into. In a few clicks down the linoleum he'll be gone. That's always how it goes. I don't even know what he looks like.