A Way to Get Things Done

Not enough could be said. He was a weapon basically. He was a way to get things done. Moonlight tiptoed into him and sorrow siphoned out. The worries and the rumors all subsided by way of truth, and once you knew it there was nothing else. Fact was too small a word. It was purer, more distilled, you knew him as you heard his footsteps. A razor and a wire, a gun and a brick, these were like fingers. You point, you push, you pull, you forget. Companions and compatriots, commiseration and cacophony. An old coat, a hat, the exhalation of smoke. It is men like he who make you think of monsters, make you turn to the storybooks and fairy tales. But men are only men, and men exist. To tear, and break, and kill, and forget.