All set.

I play the violin on the streets for a living. My cat, Seattle, loves to watch me practise. I tried to play a song by Patrick Wolf today, but I haven't practised it enough.

At random times, I leave my house at dawn; I look for people whose will to live is almost non-existent. Last thursday, I ran into a guy who was just leaving a bar. He approached me, in fact; I seduced him with my thick voice, took him to a $4/pernight hotel room, had him undress. 

I always carry my violin with me, it helps me stay focused. 

I turned the lights off, opened my violin case, took out a knife.

I stabbed Enrique (that's the name he gave me- I didn't feel like doubting him), right through his vocal cords - I would probably grow very irritated if he started screaming- so that's what I always do first, aim for the cords.

He was mostly drunk, possibly doped, but I could see the shock on his face. I could also see the pain in his eyes- I do not enjoy that part, ever.

When I pulled the knife, I could feel a crackle on my side of it. It gave me chills.

I put my finger in his wound so he would chill out a little. He tried to beg, but couldn't.

Then I grabbed his arm, and started to peel his skin off with my knife. I must admit I do enjoy the feeling of skin being "unstuck" from the bones. It makes me feel alive, inspires me to write songs and the thrill just has no comparison.

He is still alive, just disoriented. I throw him on the bed, stomach up, and then start to peel his skin off his chest. The thrill is usually less or equal, when I am taking guts out. I do not enjoy the smell, but I have to get through the whole thing. Lucky for me I found Enrique with an almost empty stomach.

I have no interest in checking out his willy. It's probably ugly and surely smells like Miguel's poop.

Finally, I felt my way through his heart. I wonder, as I look at him in the eye, and while he's breathing his last breath, if this heart belongs (belonged?) to someone. I wonder if the reason he was drunk and miserable is a reflection of his heart being broken. Either way, I cut it out, and put it in the trash can, along with the broken condoms and toilet paper. Broken condoms keeping company to a broken heart. Almost metaphorical.

I shower, put on my clothes, wash my knife, put it back in my case, then leave the room. I like to think I did Enrique a favor.

Actually, I don't play music for a living, I live for playing music.

My wife and I had the having-kids conversation again yesterday. She refuses to believe my income is good enough for this.

My wife, she has long, black hair. She is a gorgeous woman.

I don't love her, but we share many things in common.

I might as well find me a dreamer.