The razor, dulled by conflicting ideologies, cannot navigate the sharp corner of Milo's square jaw. There is an assurance in its angles, a confidence that will not be shaken. But this is the edge of the world; and, gliding along the surface of Milo's arctic skin, the blade is a vessel--damned but diligent--sliding into oblivion.
Knick.
Milo winces. Just a sting at first. The futile ember of the ship's sole cannon tilting at the end of the world. Time, like the timeless groaning seascape, is frozen for a moment. Then hell tears the hull. His skin pulls open, and blood comes like lava percolating from the deep fissure. The dull throbbing of Milo's heart floods the milk-white skin. Inside is outside, and outside is in. The timbers are in flames. The naysayers back in their sheltered port are vindicated by the sailors baleful screams.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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