He builds this fiction, this shell of causality, pretends he's civilized. Pretends he's human. We all know it. They all do it. Throughout mans' dark and storied evolution we've lain dormant. They always think they're good, safe, and we always surface at the most inopportune of moments.
Take a minute, if you will, and examine the knuckles surrounding you. Better yet, dig deep into the eyes of a stranger. Cast a withering glance or a sharp word into the ether and you'll see me there, floating in the undercurrent.
He so often forgets me. He is surprised and awkward at my presence. Sometimes he feels like things might just be better if he surrendered to me. I live and thrive independent of these things.
Today we do battle and unfortunately he outwills me. He returns home and collapses into a sorrowful, quivering heap. He is exhausted but cannot place why.
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