Hidden away, deep in his mound, away from the eyes of man, he watches, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes numb. Other times, he creeps out from his mound, a stunted and twisted thing, into the shadows...
Sometimes he dances in the gusts along the cliff's edge - other times his knife dances along a pale throat. Sometimes, he just rides his bulwand steed, prancing upon the breeze. Fingers flying across a fiddle may capture his soul, sometimes from afar - and other times he grabs the fiddler and holds him close; locked-up, for a year-and-a-day. Kept.
Sometimes his eyes burn into you from the darkness, and your soul shudders.
Someday you may open your eyes, and he will be there, and his knife may dance with you.
~ Paul Ingrassia