Each morning she stands looking at it before starting the day. It is always close to her in thought, as though there were links of fine chain connecting them.
The black razor is mysterious. It speaks it's own language. It tells tales of nightmare landscapes, and of flying on wings that sprout from the shoulders of some who drink a secret potion, unafraid of the result. It speaks of escapes that are accomplished not by going outward, but going inward instead. Interior magic is heavy, dense and powerful. Its potency can not be diluted by exterior sound and fury.
She loves the black razor with a peculiar intellectual twist. The flame is not dampened by this, but fueled instead.
She is perverse.
At times, just after nightfall, she kisses the blade, imbuing it with her spirit, and breathes upon it, leaving a film resembling smoke. When it clears, the eyes of another look out at her.
Communion.
She loves the long sleek lines of it, and finds a deep, almost erotic pleasure in pressing the flat of the blade to her cheek, feeling it's cool surface warm to her own temperature. It becomes a part of her. Ever dangerous, ever mesmerizing, never sheathed.
It is the constant reminder of life as it might trickle away through a cut across a vein.
Or, of a close elegant shave, leaving a sensuous silken surface behind.
On certain nights, she is awakened by the presence of the moon. It sits squarely centered in the window.
There was a fine crescent moon in a dark sky. It was the colour of ivory. Small clouds moved slowly across it. It was the magic vehicle of witchery, which enables peculiar loves to fly toward each other soundlessly. Speaking in ancient tongues too arcane for others to know, thoughts are exchanged.
The palm of her hand promises either genius or madness. Is there a difference between them?
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