He’d keep that one. Keep hold of your sword. Preferably with both hands. You can’t fend off Anarchist hacksticks with the corpse of your dead girlfriend now, can you? Am I being sick here? Me? Look at Azrael. Well sick or not, at least he's free. Other people’s expectations make you their slaves. And love is the harshest slave driver of them all. So here he was, free from other people. The easy life. The easy life is like moving from a cramped cottage to a huge studio flat. It’s got flashy furniture. It's got pristine paintwork and everything smells fresh and new. It's got a state-of-the-art wide-screen gravimagmathic lithoplasma-nano-fine TV screen and other gadgets you’ll never use. A little bare though… Lacks the comforting touch. Azrael didn’t have space in his life for care and comfort. And he certainly didn’t want the spiked fruit cocktail which is love. Love is a more perilous instrument than any sword, because love strikes from the inside. And there ain’t no counter for that. Azrael was a responsive swordstril and he was proud of it. Counter fighters don’t like things against which they can mount no solid defence.
Psytopia Adagio 1
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