In the white hot incandescence of anger, your thing we call soul like moth to streetlight, away from death hanging on to that lashing frail thread of vengeance’s lust, back, back, back, your life unspooling to a connate snap where a white cold glare brutally greets you with a hand slap to the backside, heckuva set of lungs this one’s got! You progress through the various stages of human development in a tense anger, acloud of premonition hanging over your head. You wonder where all this repressed rage comes from, and your high school psychologist keeps on saying you keep it bottled up until you’re forced to find something to bottle him up. One day you slide into a vacant bus, or stride into the littered halo of a lone streetlight. You choose to know the exact instant and circumstances of your death, and he tears out your throat on the spot.