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What's there to say? Who is there to talk to besides walls,
bill collectors, and cattle for the slaughter?

As soon as I make the first incision, as soon as the
knife draws its first drop of gorgeous crimson, I realize I
have already ruined the piece. I plunge my scalpel
through his rib cage, and his eyes turn to me wide with
fear. Quickly they grow dim as his life fades from his
body.

I hear him try to gasp as his lungs fill with blood.
I watch as his body goes from sentient being to broken
organic machine, and then I turn to face the door.
I collapse on the floor, and for the first time in my
spotted memory, I sob openly, without trying to cover my
face or hide my tears.
Please comeback.
I think I'm quite done making art now.

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