I am cowled and haunted; a misnomer cloaked in the illusion of human flesh. Distortion is my speciality and I keep it close, keep it guarded, keep it nearer to my heart than I might ever keep you. The words tumble from my lips, from my fingertips, from my eyes like waterfalls or the sudden flight of birds into the dark plum evening sky. Notions are my weapons, bared only after they've been sharpened to a cutting edge; they glint in the starlight with the promise of something concrete, something tangible, never once revealing their wonton bloodlust. But they hum and whir in my hands, cool to the touch of my clammy palms.