My twitch isn’t happy.

I pluck individual hairs from his head. There is a ping as each root breaks the skin. I am getting to him. I can tell. He is slowing, groping his head, tears in his eyes.

“Alright, man,” he says, handing me his wrists, which I very quickly put into cuffs, “You’ve been chasing me for like 8 miles. I give up, man.”

He returns the stolen magazine to Borders and is given a very stern talking to.

Another day, saved by Man-Lift.

Such is my life, a daily battle for peace over violence, an epic journey of massive proportions, never leaving time to rest.

I sit at home, television on, recliner back. I lather peanut butter onto my bread, concentrating on the knife. I haven’t yet been able to move it, it’s just a tad too heavy for my powers liking. I stare at it, sending it waves of motion. I command it to fly.

I get nothing but a headache and a shudder in my shoulder. I pop two pills to ease the twitch.

Time for bed.