you will know him, dear friend, by the great white limestone chunks of his knuckles, by his small drooping black moustache and his twisted screw of a mouth, to be more precise, you know him as the occupant of cell number five.

 

blessed with a beautiful wife and a sucessful career in accounting, mr X had everything a man could desire. he was well liked in the civil service, and very genteel in his habits, a model white collar with ambition and prospects.

 

it had, according to mr x, begun with a dream:

 

our patient was laying on the ground, on his back, quite naked and staring up into the sun. in the distance he spied a shape, a shape the colour of fresh snow, a spread of wings angling down towards him out of the light. it was a swan with a long graceful neck and broad wings. in moments it had descended and landed upon his chest beating its great white wings so that in a delerium of light, feathers and cold air mr x and the swan were locked together..

 

when mr x awoke he found his mouth filled with blood and pale blue feathers, around him were pieces of a what he supposed was a kingfisher, torn savagely to pieces. there was no doubt of his own guilt in the matter for his fingernails were rimmed with gore.

 

can you imagine the profound effect of this event on the hitherto tranquil mind of mr x? to be woken from one bacchanalian dream to another, without concious interpose..

 

ii

 

 i watch slack jawed, my eyes wet with tears as birds cross my window, heading across the sky in waves around the sun.

what could bring a man to this murderous state? i push my plate aside, swallow the urge to throw it against a wall. i imagine plowing through the glass, throwing my arms out, plunging to the ground. even in death the truth escapes us, we sink downwards on wings of mud and dirt.

 

how can a man kill the thing he loves?

 

those geese and their hearty crying, their passionate lives up above the world.