There is a murderer I would like to tell you about. He smiles. No. not the manic or deranged kind of grin; this murderer is quite sane, quite dreadfully sane. His smile should not be counted an evil smile either. It’s not avaricious, it is not the smile of any pleasure. It is the smile of a tragedian. A sort of apology.
He is, shall we say, the philosophical murderer. Often driven by passion, he has not lost his reason. He is, sadly, cognizant of himself.
He styles himself an artist or a prophet or a medium. He will claim some genius or dƦmon, some grasp of some cultic truth that he must express, an expression invariably deadly.
Tale Told 