the first day is done

"mail is slower than satan." these powerful words resonated within my living embers as I sank back, slowly, into my chair. To look back upon a day is always difficult. It is even harder than beating electricity. Sometimes the profundity of silence can strike one's soul in a touching way, even if the soul is twisted, malformed, and blackened with the sickness of death like that which plagued the people of Europe in the Middle Ages. No more can I recline in the corduroy of the duct-taped blue chair, carefree and child-like in my innocence. No more can I sit silently as they plot and conspire, ripping holes in my mind like a native through the well-hunted beast. No more shall I slowly contemplate myself in an ever-shrinking and paradoxical vortex of thought. Tonight I strike; tonight I gather the forces together to wreak havoc and raze. Tonight the squirrels will die. For too long they have plagued my thought, invaded my very existence, sucked away my soul. My retribution will be swift and strong. None shall survive. As I pass through, girded in steel and with iron weapons, none shall survive. The once grassy fields of Harvard will be a bloody, barren wasteland; the scuttling of squirrels shall be no more.