Hot and Cold
In Soho, in the winter, it's despicably cold. The cold's wickeder than he, he thinks, and thinks to go somewhere high up where he can hear the wind howling. It's louder than he is when he screams his joy inside his head.
Transformations, those times he catches freedom, holds her prisoner, make him hot. Hotter than summer. He's hot to touch, almost feverish--but never appears any different from other men. It's that sickness people feel looking at him. He's evil.
He's proud of it.
He leaves his house with all speed, to find somewhere to laugh at the wind.
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