Hand raised towards the head, you let the words run round like the teeth on a spinning gear head, faster and faster until they blur into a noise so fine, so keen it's indistinguishable from a knife blade.
Brighter. Better. Stronger.
You let go.
The head in the chair explodes, the neck giving birth to bone and blood and brains, an unholy abortion of guts and spine ejected from the stump like the devils own jack-in-the-box. It wasn't meant to happen this way, it wasn't meant to be this messy. Almost out loud, as if by letting go you have somehow forgotten them and need to gather them up, you say the words. You feel yourself shaking as you watch the meat and bone stretching out of the neck like a snake charmers act in slow motion, coiling and coiling around as it reaches towards the ceiling. You leave before the world catches up with you but there is the pervasive feeling you've forgotten something hanging over you. It stays with you down those dark streets and follows you on the bus home and after a moment you decide to get off two stops early and head to a random hotel.
The feeling is still there, the presence, because that's what it is.