There is no romance in these trials, no roses to mask the odor, no one to pay tribute to what once spiraled hypnotically. A woman who sung the praises of a sharp knife, cannot be surprised when it is used against her, by hand or circumstance. It is all life on the knee, when one is weakened by indignities.
Days ago, a man named James Holmes murdered twelve people in a movie theater. I write a letter to him for the same reason I wrote Richard Ramirez. Because I can.
People will say that James smiles, because he feels no remorse. They will sweep their own sins under the rug, which will be made with his skin. We will all congratulate ourselves when he is hanged for his crimes. He took an eye, and we got an eye. We are all vocal judges, and silent executioners.
When I was a child, mother would tell me that demons liked to possess horses. She would say that we are all much like pretty horses with dark coats. I had no idea what she meant by the latter, only that I liked the sound of it. She would also say that god makes no mistakes, and the creation of Satan was a necessary evil. It was required for our own personal, and collective, spiritual evolution. But, if I got too scared, I simply remembered that mother never believed in god for long, and that she often talked just to see what would come out. We have that in common.