Sitting down

I pull out the chair and sit.

Adjust the architect lamp so that its silvery beam illuminates only part of the desktop, leaving the rest of the room in an ambient semidarkness.

Then unscrew the fountainpen cap and reach for my moleskin notebook.

A barely audible sigh escapes the smooth spine as I part the covers and leaf through its immaculate pages.

I place the gold plated tip of the pen in a top left corner.

A shimmering pearl of blackish ink bleeds into the paper, robbing it instantly of its virginity.

My account commences.

I once killed a boy.