Every murder is an answer to a question, that circle of why, why not sealed resolutely, a task no longer subject to debate. The part we kill is the loss we meant, the inverse effect of the not thought, that polar bear ignored in the snow. The crime is worse that bloodshed, worse than that cropped continuity of aimless affections and differing moods. It is the flavor of murder that alters the stew, the word, the idea, the crime. The world is rife with all manner of comfort killings. The phrase lights the irredeemable impulse, the fire we imagine we will burn in, the origin of sin itself.
You never know when to cross God off the list. Like some hockey masked movie killer, he rises from his grave again and again. You murder him to make your point, and he leaps from the lake to make his will known. Or was that an alligator. The point is, good or bad or worth watching at all, some movie will get made. Irony is the only constant in the universe, so why deal in jinxes? You hold the cord until there is nothing left to struggle. Just the weight and the echoes of the action. Just prayers and ghosts and evidence, cameras every where flashing lights in your darkened mind.
This is the romance of the remainder, the last glimmer of the cast-off husk. The wishing star that blazed a bright scratch-mark across the sky, the sound of bodies always wrestling with gravity in the night. Wings of mosquitos, pads of cats, mistakes that can not be undone. Give us these reasons, give us these blessings, give us your word just this once. Nothing is said, and no-one is waiting. The hours rise again and again, leaving you with little more than time to kill.