"Why go there?", I wondered. I had no idea. Smoothly I sped along the road, thinking of my fate. I felt a cry of unhappiness grow in me and so quickly overpowered it. No tears now, especially not while on the road!
Then I saw it: an odd little drama just off the road by a foot, maybe two. My headlights on it produced an eerie cast indeed, though in a second I had gone by. What I saw echoed a dozen awful things from the unforgiving past, eleven of them gloriously bad.
For that one frightful second I saw there a huge bird of prey, of size forty inches from wing to wing. Just below its rugged talons jerked a poor animal, spurts of gray liquid from its body leaking forth like sap from a young tree. As I sped by, within a mere inch of the grim scene, I glanced to my right and there saw the bird casually dining away, unmoving as my tires calmly sped by.
Then I came to her building, saw her, did what I had to, quickly.
Now I just bide my own time and sleeplessly think over things. Every night (well, about every night), as I try again to sleep, I reflect on the drama I saw on that foul night, muse on the vivid metaphors. I usually think: am I the bird? The animal? The black tires?
No, I say, no. I am the blood.