THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.
It’s a curious thing, isn’t it, that as quickly we come into the world we can be taken out. A piano, a puddle, a lake, a knife, a sledge hammer– one moment we’re walking, the next we’re walking the Stairway.
But what’s even stranger about our predicament is the person behind it.
It can never be solved. It can never be heard of, and it can never be redone. The knife has to be done up just right and adjusted, doesn’t it, and kept that way. The people in on the tricks and things have to be payed off or, perhaps, taken care of, if you catch my drift.
There needs to be the perfect venue. The “just the right moment” time of when to strike, when to distract, when to keep busy and take off the floor and off the plane.
But it always comes and it’s always there and it always stays. There’s a strange peace when it’s upon us, isn’t there, when something has worked itself out so slowly and meticulously that there is nothing in the world that can stop it.
Because the perfect murder can never be solved. It can never be heard of, and it can never be redone. And, as you and I both know,
we will never hear about
the perfect murder.
Because it was perfect.