I fashioned these instruments in the dark, they are conceited and blind; blunt and bloody murder. They are animate beyond my control. Some chronic neuro spasm drew them to the surface, they will not submerge now. Gone are the days of liquefaction – these times have hard edges and sharp corners. There is no comfort here in the vivisection lounge. I take my ticket and wait my turn. I’m the last. I’m always last. They save the worst for last.
I donate my gory remains to a science irrational in the hope that someone else takes the rap for my indiscretions. That’s an unlikely scenario since my fingerprints colour the crime scene like cherry blossoms. I usually plead not guilty by means of insanity; it never works, but it’s all I have. Of course, it’s not a question of guilt. Guilt is arbitrary in the machinations of the great mechanism. The guilty and the innocent alike are brought to the dock; sometimes innocence is regarded as a crime.
Your honour, it’s late or early yet and I’m a thousand miles past midnight and way too high to be dragged down by the machinery of jurisprudence. I am all tempus fugit and I’m travelling too fast to be precise or discerning. My testimony is therefore suspect; I could be perjuring myself and I wouldn’t know. All I know is my tables turned and the judgements that I once meted out are now meted out against me. Have I been framed again? Will this be another great miscarriage of justice? Could it be that I’m as guilty as anybody ever was?