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There is an urgent and growing desire within me to show you how I really feel.
Does this make you uncomfortable?
Perhaps I am being presumptuous calling you by your name.
I don’t know what else to call you.
You’re just going to have to get used to it.
As I was saying, the desire is urgent and it is growing.
It has been for some time.
Twenty-four years, I suppose I could say, but that is also being presumptuous.
It should suffice for me to tell you this desire has been growing for as long as I have.
It has been outgrowing me for most of my life.
If I could draw, I would bind this beast to canvas.
It would dwarf the most hideous vision.
If I could write, I would shackle this leviathan with bonds of impervious black ink.
The blasphemous script would shame the Books of Darkness into light.
But I can do neither of these things to a satisfactory level of skill.
Instead I must simply hold up a flickering candle, and a shard of silver.
To give more than a faint reflection of the seething other
is to ascend beyond the peak of my ability.

I hate you all.
I hate the way you drape fibres over your bodies and see them as more than rags.
I hate the way you bathe in poison and paint corruption on your skin.
I hate the way you fashion a thousand answers to one question and act on none.
I hate your ignorance.
I hate your blindness.
I hate the way you flock together, bleating at the thunder.
I hate the way you can’t see that you do this.
I hate the fact that most of you will never read this.
I hate the way you pollute our playground and call it progress.
I hate your fascination with the false prophets of the new millennium.
Most of all, I hate you, because you smile while reading this, and marvel at life’s gifts.
I hate you, but please don’t hate me for saying so.

I speak these words looking into my shard of silver.






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