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My heart grows heavy and tired. As I kneel down against the moist, unforgiving pavement, I long for my own death, my own eternal solitude. I calmly remove the knife from her once vibrant chest and notice the blood flowing from the gaping sore towards the ground. It makes a perfect homogeneous mixture together with the acidic rain water that discolors these back alleyways a nauseating green. Yes, she bled very much. We all bleed, I suppose.

I tuck the knife neatly into my black overcoat and turn away from the absence of life, away towards the stream of souls. Oh, but how she was gorgeous. What a stunning vision of red, white, and gold all merging together in my eyes to form a dazzling new color altogether. I desired her greatly then, but I am tired now. I desire nothing but the end. If the rain grew as cold as my black heart, I would have cause to shudder as I solemnly march away from these gutters and into the theatre district. Here there is life, thousands of souls walking about, some holding hands with their mates, but more often than that, restless hearts that beat miserably alone. They are all the same though. There, that woman with the grey sweatshirt! Notice her smile, her attention falsely given to her husband. Yes, they all smile with a certain stupidity, a blankness in their minds that reflects upon their idiotic visage. I pity them as I pity the one who had to die, for they will never know their purpose. I have realized my purpose. I am an angel of death.

I never fear nor desire nor hunger for anything of this world. I desired once before, and the cause of my temporary ignorance was blotted out from this cursed earth forever. Now I walk freely among those who desire, those who search in vain because they have not and will never find the cause of their soul's anguish: the lack of a purpose for existence. Oh, most assuredly many of them are students, eminent scholars, and businessmen, but they drown in their own misery because they conclude that vocation is purpose. In purpose only is there truth, therefore they live a lie and are ignorant. You think me a bitter man, but I simply teach the truth and lessons are learned. I give all of my chosen a purpose: to die. In that may they find comfort, in that may they find refuge for no longer are they ignorant. Yes, I will send them to their god.

Oh yes, there it is, the most excellent Cafe De L'Amour. Inside are dozens of souls seeking a destiny. I quickly run my fingers through my hair and enter. My soft footsteps make no sound amidst conversation and light jazz. Ah, there she is: a slender. red-haired woman of absolute Graeco-Roman perfection. Pity, she sits alone, impatiently pouring over a novel: A Man's Search For Meaning! Yes, she is the one.

As she lifts her eyes and glances casually across the masses, her radar gives me a look, first up and then down. She grins and then blushes within a few seconds apart, and I make my way toward her solitary station. Among many we are yet alone. Of course we converse, but it is of little importance. Names do not matter, life is empty.

We decide to stroll along the rainy pavement, and she, with umbrella in hand, constantly glares at me in affection. We have removed ourselves from such a useless scene, no, out here is much better. The harsh reality of a dark sky overhead and the freezing rain is the only thing that assures me that I yet live. I find another dark alley and proceed forward. As is expected she succumbs to my physical form and begins to kiss me, undress right there, and fondle my body.

Her laughter of ecstasy is quickly shattered as I plunge the knife into her chest. She looks up at me as she hits the pavement, confused and too weak to cry out. A blood stain crosses her lips and I remove it with my tongue. How wicked is the feeling that permeates my being, I now lust for the blood of another, no, it is desire for her body. It is of little consequence though, some bum will ravish her corpse.

I calmly walk away and am almost in view of the Cafe when I hear terrifying screams surrounding me. I am further startled by a deep burning sensation in my spine. Looking back, I see a masked gunman, perhaps a gang member that has wandered into the district to seek refuge. I've been shot.

There is no time to assess the damage as I make a resounding thud against the brutal pavement. I have never experienced this much feeling for anything in my entire pathetic existence, and I must admit it is a welcome experience. My heart grows even more weary, and as my breathing becomes faint and sporadic I notice one last thing: with my eyes half closed I see a puddle of thick blood that has spread out on all sides. I do bleed after all. We all bleed.

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