6.10

Slip-strike from silver eyes, a glancing blow of unfortunate timing, a blood-letting slash of slavish lust lining my foul flesh. Wherefore: I cannot love, I am incapable. Why, then, should this shivering stuff of mortal bones be so indecently my own? I reject it, part and parcel, and sent it so discovered back to its source, a clanging cymbal, or a a a a banging drum.