White with Murder

 

Wheels, rotors, coils, propellers, and pistons are running a tape between my ears. The voice is now mine, but who recorded this tape? I rewind it slower and slower until the words solidify like dough. I move closer, and the letters become just as high as I am, each letter — an entity in itself, with no future and no past. I now face a giant “I” character, and as I reach my hand out, it crumbles under my touch, like wet chalk. My hands are now white with murder. I have killed a letter, and the word is now weaker. I move to the next one, and I try to touch it. Like a cloud, it dissipates, and now it is harder to see the word. Drunk with the excitement of destruction, I start jumping around, crossing random thoughts, like a gymnast on her floor routine. I dance, waving the tape with a new vibration, the vibration of a free breath…

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