I know the dirtiness of the act which I am inclined to commit; premeditated murder;first degree murder. Planned,really, for months now, everything written out in the most detail possible. What she will be wearing when she dies, where she will die, how she will die, and the mindset of the man whom I’ve chosen to commit the deed. What I haven’t considered, (or rather, what I’d rather not consider) is how,exactly,she should die.

Needless to say, sleep don’t come easy.

If Yeats was right, and this is how it starts (in the rag and bone shop of the heart) then who is to say that after I kill this girl with a name I have no intention of learning, I won’t kill a girl with a face I have no intention of remembering? After whom, who is to say I won’t murder that whose name and face are committed to memory?

Can you tell I’ve been reading Cormier?

I begin to wonder if King is a tortured soul, because frankly, I don’t think I can do it. I feel guilty, and though I know her death is relatively insignificant, literally a couple of splatters of ink in a composition book, I can’t help but want to refrain from being a poetic cliche.