[Private to Terry Boot]
I am losing my taste for blood, it seems. When the sanguine smoke rises upward, I see no beauty-- but a mere functionality to the obscure.
Cannot expect what may not be expected from deeper, from within, where not a parody of it is left. His tragedy was that he could not realize. High on the scaffold he stood like a tragic hero, whilst all around him jeered and scoffed. I was among them, I was on the platform, a rusty axe in my bloodied hands.
Miranda, my darling mute-girl, stood beside me, and smiled her toothless smile. I still have her tongue in my drawer. I punish disobedience.
Had you not wondered above the roofs in an attempt to fall off?
[/Private to Terry Boot]
I seem to have misplaced my wife. Anyone had seen her lately?