Hand written text from Murderers Row Test

Note: What follows lacks editing and writes from the hip into the pages of the test
book. A polished version may exist in the future, but until then the raw narrative
remains. The initial inspiration to write stems from the work of a former
acquaintance then falls into personal experience, narrative, and introspection. After
examining this test, I have decided to meld personal with a polished narrative.
Lastly, to encourage an active experience, the images will speak of their own
references throughout the subsequent books.

A season ago, this was my storm. I bested the winds and braved
cold gales tipped with water. I rose my arms and flew. Long past
the grey cloud shelf and far beneath the setting sun and clouds.
This season the tornadoes gather round and my draw is not what
sent them here. The darkness they churn is beyond my
fingertips. My extension is shorter these days.
These storms dont walk away. These storms dont carry knives
and poisons to me, yet one day they may. These storms attack
making no consideration to damage or blood. The fascination
over control and appearances rule every measure upon measure.
These storms hidden in houses reserve these notions to leave as
some have no more tears to cry, even silently.
House & Home
Oh sun, never leave me alone.
Bought and paid for
What could happen out in the open? Homelessness saw to that
education. Fending for myself in the night still hoping I had a
home. Isle du Medicine I long for again. Making do is not an option
anymore.
How could this go on in a house called home? No matter the relic,
shack, or domain. No matter the rain, I must have some place
called home. A place to rest and heal. A place to grow. Finally a
place to lay my head and call mine own. Not a place to harass or

be harassed, a place to be still and not be moved. A place to

realize silence is its own fulfillment. House is not always a home.
A house is a place to store my shit and sleep.
A house has few memories and is never settles.
A house is left over kindling from a city wide bonfire.
A house is more transient than where homelessness abides.
For me, just a house is waist of time.
What am I to do? Sulk and whine while the past time frolicking
over the dead? Am I to stand behind thse four walls and boast
when I may of being different and secure when protected behind
walls of plaster, wood, and brick? I cannot walk out there can I? I
cannot take on step from beneath the canopy, may I? I cannot
maintain this composure standing stark still.
Why do I feel they have an advantage? How can I forget being
threatened on a daily basis. I have yet to hear quiet and the
crickets between sundown and high moon. I remember their
songs vaguely floating on the edge of sleep. Leaving them was
my undoing and now where I go is no longer a couch, but a pillow
furnished bed.
I do not argue why they kill. I quietly bargain my safety and selfdefense most nights when we are vulnerable and open. Two
attack when I am sensitive: on the pot and on the verge of sleep.
I fall asunder with the brutality and insistence. I know not how to
counter. I know not how to counter cept no action has as much
weight as a reaction.
Give no admonishment or good word. No attention is what takes
hold and begins the correction.
Fear

1) To be hunted down
2) Killed for wisdom
3) Confessing midst retaliation
4) Committing assault
5) Being born without purpose
6) Aimless laughter
7) Aimless laughter
8) Aimless laughter
9) Jokes replacing silence
10)
Self-implicated silence
Why dont they value human life? Do I need to understand? What
relief will that bring me?
I was here. Here. They were there. Am I obligated to save them or
me? Now it is a game? Maybe to see how far Ill go. Wisdom in
death or just plain psychosis in murder?