It was when the twi edge started talking back that I began to first suspect.
That I was not a mental reject, just crazy. And not the normal crazy we're
all clocking in at. Lord god it's obvious our existence alone is fundament-
ally wack. But when my own knife glints at me from the shadow of the alley
way I'm treading, I need to know is it street or moon lamp light that it's
shedding. Easily I see best by starlight, revealer of the smallest details.
I thought I caught a whispered hush slip from my angled dagger's tip,
as I raced head low and long through the night wind. The haft held firm
in my right hand's grip as twilight across the tilted edge licked and winked.
A missive to stay taut and not dismiss immediateness.
We are at our most focused when someone makes a target of us.
We whose aim is relaxation. How easily I laughed at this, then.
When late the book read me, and not the other way around.
When it was I that the book had found. . .