incandescens | blood and associations

The problem with writing psychopaths is, well, that one has to write psychopaths. If you perceive a character as someone who's going to link sex with blood and scalpels and screaming -- or, really, any of the latter three with each other or the first -- then it gets harder to write him any other way.

(Graceful masks. Wicked masks. Hm.)

(And a Shien x Hakkai with whips has somehow transformed into a Hakkai x Shien in the moonlight. Still got to write the damn thing, though. Bother it.)

It's Sunday evening and Mylene Farmer is singing in the background. Now I just need some strange dreams.

---

Abel

My brother Cain, the wounded, liked to sit
Brushing my shoulder, by the staring water
Of life, or death, in cinemas half-lit
By scenes of peace that always turned to slaughter.

He liked to talk to me. His eager voice
Whispered the puzzle of his bleeding thirst,
Or prayed me not to make my final choice,
Unless we had a chat about it first.

And then he chose the final pain for me.
I do not blame his nature: he's my brother;
Nor what you call the times: our love was free,
Would be the same at any time; but rather

The ageless ambiguity of things
Which makes our life mean death, our love be hate.
My blood that streams across the bedroom sings:
"I am my brother opening the gate!"

-- Demetrios Capetanakis