Originally posted elsewhere, 4/30/04 and slightly altered since.
To wake again and again wonder at the wonder of you. This isn’t me. It really isn’t, isn’t, isn’t. It isn’t I at all. I’m not so heartly soft as this, mostpartly, nor so kindly overawed. I killed a man in Arkansas for laughing at my family name. I nabbed a batch of Pekingese for some Peruvian group what followed the path that shines to light the way for all mankind to stumble into the abyss. They only wanted the puppies’ eyes, but I gave them the litter and let them do the rest. Then there are the children in my well, but don’t get me started. Don’t get me started on that damned well. It took me six months to divine where all the best water might be, another month to dig the thing and then I go and start throwing those damned kids into it and now the water’s hardly potable. No. Don’t get me started. I have requested this repeatedly.
It’s good to be up before the sun. The silence is broken only by far-east cockcrow and the howlings of those anguished little ghosts impotable.
God, how I love you, love. I could eat your brain without no spoon at all. The flesh of thee betwixt m’teeth as well would be a morsel fit for the king I’m meant to be and oh, our kingdom. We would rule it with kid gloves upon our iron fists. Each evening you could crack my skull wide open and dine upon what gray matters you might or mightn’t find beneath and of course, as I’ve suggested, I’d do the same for you. But of course I would, my love. I would do the same-so thing for you without no spoon at all.
We’ll see about them then, them ghostly kids. We’ll put them in a well right proper. This will be the well in which the water springs from hell itself and then we’ll hear them spoil the predawn silence of the eastern roosters. You bet your daggers and gauntlets we will.
And love, oh how I love the gleaming of your troll-forged armor at dawn and the blood of my innocent enemies dripping from your lethal fingers.