It's dark.  I feel cramped and restless.  I've only been sitting a short time but there's a certain edginess I can;t contain, a certain mystere that forges itself within me.  These things I can't explain and pressing on will only bore you because what I cannot explain you cannot understand.

There is the corpse of a cat on the neighbour's front lawn.  They call these cats tuxedo cats because of their black and white markings.  This cat though had been gutted, its entrails slithering onto the lawn.  I wondered if it may have been a dog that carved such a crevice, as I stared in fascination.  I imagined the tussle, imagined the last dying moments.  A screech fading to a whimper. 

Others, unlike you and I would have looked away in disgust, but we have voyeuristic natures, a need for the macabre and so I write this for you, that you may share my morbidity, that you may feel guilt with dark pleasure.

The time is 12:30 am and it's too early for me to hunt.  The streets will soon find themselves lonely, lit only by the yellow and black signs of pawn shops and discount money lenders.  Car dealerships will be abandoned until morning, their vast lots buzzing under electric lamps.  Only the solitary blur of a checkered cab will tresspass the boulevard, its disillusioned driver too intent on self destruction to attend his eyes to the night.

Tonight, as has become my calling, I will spread the gift of tongues. 

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