I spent most of this weekend writing. Somehow, I was captured by a bit of a muse that would simply not let go. Did 7 loads of laundry, wrote about 70 pages of content, couldn’t sleep for the visions that I created in my own head.

My first kill–a man this time, not the pigeons and rats and dogs and cats common to youthful expression–took place when I was only 16. And I was not bothered by it in the slightest. I had no great epiphany, no recognition that I had committed _the_ foul act of sin, cardinal against not just one man but all humanity, the darling genome of the planet, guarded against all transgression, held above all the other countless species we see every day. No sorrow, no pity. No second thought. Nothing about me changed in the slightest when I wiped the blood from the knife onto my pant leg, already stained with dirt and grit and oil and grass, dotted with burns from cigarettes, now stained with the bright, red arterial blood that captures mens’ souls and sends them off to wherever they go.

I’m obsessing over this character, this cold, seemingly fearless but terrified, lost soul. Read stories of murderers, first-hand accounts of psychopaths, saw dark documentaries focused on the darkest minds of the Age of Men.

I think this weekend, though creatively inspiring, has had a detrimental effect as well. Can’t get this guy out of my head.