Knives made him shudder.

The gentle resistance of his well-kept blades as he pushed them through seven delicious grains made his muscles twitch.

He would light candles in the kitchen, his knives reflecting fire as he moved them slowly through the air. He could feel little breezes stirring, moving them back and forth, up and down. He would stare at the edge until it ran into air, spending hours attempting to see the exact point where the knife ended and infinity began. He wondered what the knife would feel like against his skin, what it would feel like when infinity gave way to sharp, cold metal. He wondered if the freezing steel would freeze him, if it would make him stiff, a statue. He wondered these things, and he took a loaf of bread, and he sliced it slowly, carefully, thin sections falling like sheafs of paper. He sliced bread, and he stopped wondering what knives would be like on his skin.

He was out of bread, and he had knives on the mind. He went to the store.