I enjoy my knife, though. My knife doesn't kill, it stabs. The death is their own fault. My knife lets a person bleed. It lets many people bleed. Red as ruby nectar drips, sometimes gushes, from their body. They fall. Still alive. Still breathing. I imagine licking their blood from the ground, as it's delicious. It must taste horrible. But it feeds my needs and desires and gives me life. This is why I hate death. I would stab him if I could, but I can't. I can't touch him. He doesn't hear me yell at him. I scream at the top of my lungs, but my words fade, he ignores me. And cried. And laughed.