breakfast morning. cut my hand with one mischievous knife which ended clattering happily on the floor. bit wound to somehow diffuse the pain. only to be even more surprised because now my blood tasted bitter.

i should have known this would happen. what began as a dull pain in the chest a few days ago now became the caustic poison coursing through my veins.

and then it came; the rash of urges bent on annihilation. the whirlwind that blows fast, too fast, bending each piece of reality that it touches. blowing fast, too fast, cutting a swath of wreckage around its axis. a wake of destruction that nevertheless goes unnoticed by the single entity at the very center of this storm...

storms subside given time. but the wounds it leaves behind on the landscape will take a longer time to heal. and even then the landscape will forever be altered, no longer smooth and fresh, but fraught with rough and twisted edges. and there will always be that underlying cruelty beneath the serene surface.

no body really heals completely from this kind of wound. and sometimes knives cut deeper that you think they did, leaving a strange toxin that alters how you see reality.

starring at the contented face of the happy knife lying down on the floor, i thought of the immense possibilities of the things that i could do out of anger and spite.

but then again, knives were made to cut and slice after all.