In my dreams, I am the beautiful youth Krshna. You ask me how it is that someone with such a variety of fine cosmetics and scented waters can send young boys off to war to face such terror and mess. I turn around-- furious, ecstatic--and you see in my black ragged teeth the oozing remnants of beauty interrupted. The squirming smalls of backs and well-formed calves pulverized slowly and asymmetrically in my slow burning fury.

In my dreams, you are standing. You cannot move. I am a ruminant, yet my hooves are razor sharp. Flowers stop in mid-bloom. Your ears are battered by silence as I approach to slowly, carefully shred the flesh at the back of your calves until you can no longer support your own weight.