I am overwhelmed by a curious desire, a revelation. A vivid rush of life.
I can see it now and almost taste the metallic languor that lingers as I see the blood.
I know the cigar cutter, the green and simple thing. It's dull and thin but sharp enough, I assume, to slice through the bone with proper force.
The tip of a pinky is just tactile enough to be missed. The tapping of a fret will never be the same. But even now, as I commit these thoughts to the screen, I can no longer remember the motion. The image is losing it's vivacity.
But I can feel it still. The sharp and bitter pain. The cold rushing into the stump. I can feel the throbbing as I place the pressure on the open wound and I can imagine the limp fragment with it's nail intact drying out slowly, seeking rot.
I can imagine it now, that precious little token. I wish to give it to someone special, I would like them to see. It is a token of my embrace of life in all of its fullness. That sweet and supple fruit that bleeds its sticky nectar only when one seizes it in its full and redolent ripeness and takes a crisp, full bite.