There Is No Murder. We Make Murder,

Fear Comes With Imagination, It’s A Penalty, It’s The Price Of Imagination.

Back At His Chair He Cannot Remember What He Was Reading. He Feels The Books Beside Him To Find The One That Is Warm.

The Very Air Had Screams Smeared On It. He Flinched From The Noise In This Silent Room.

It Rubs The Lotion On Its Skin. It Does This Whenever It Is Told.

He Was Numb Except For Dreading The Loss Of Numbness.