The Murderer

The night is long, its hours stretching like shadows in the setting sun.

Last night has stretched far, stretching even into the morning, and the new day is tainted by the dark deeds done under a moonless sky. He moves about the crowd, one particle within an ebbing tide of traffic. People are all about him, unconscious of him, moving from place to place within a parched world. Their thirst binds them, making them scurry about as the sun rises. He no longer thirsts, is no longer one of them, but their movement hides his, the smell of their longing and sweat mask the odor of blood on him.

The night hides from the sun within the hearts of men.

He prowls, hunted and hunting, the mask of himself over his demon’s desire, and his eye is watchful as a cat’s eye may seek a little songbird yet is wary lest some shadow larger than itself might move. He carries the long night inside himself, and the day cannot cast it out. He walks upon the sidewalk, he waves to a grocer, and he searches for his prey.

How long the night which will not recede come new day.