8:217) Dirt Flinkhart 31-MAY-98 9:34

Madriffing, sadriffing, badriffing dammitohell, I don't like being angry. It's the blood in the eyes, the tolling of a deep, deep bell behind my skull somewhere. Quiet tension. Bitter peace. The knowledge that unless I step carefully, unless I walk gently within this fragile skin, someone stands more than a chance of being hurt. Mayhem and madness; I know the owl's screech as my own. I know the taste of electricity. I know the secrets of knife-edge and needlepoint. I know the solidity of wildfire. It's a whole new me, dark and broad and heavy-footed. I keep him jekyll-and-hydden away, but he's down there, oh yes, down in the cellar where I can hear him breathing and feasting on rats and spiders and the scent of sweat. Never knock on his door. Never rattle his windows. Never shorten his sleep as you value your life.

I do not like being angry.

Nobody else likes it very much either.