He was making the small steps he needed to make. Soon the finish line. He breathed out and in, and opened the document: The air by the lake was cool as the sun set, somewhere in the distance the sound of an owl, an eagle owl, she surmised, flying across the waters. THIRTY THE KILLER looked at his reflection in the mirror. The child that once was there in the glass, was now barely visible, worn away with pain and disease. His youth was still barely visible in the grey eyes that looked back at him through years of regret. Evidence of those past defeats were what the whores saw. They looked into his soul, into the deep pool of loneliness and abandoned faith; a life had sailed past like a ghost ship under a stormy sky. The natives claimed that the heart had many rooms; the killer’s was like a maze. Unchartered territory, abandoned attics, condemned cellars, a dank cold living room darker than a suicide’s notebook. He remembered as a child having had a terrible dream.
