Ignorance crept into Freedom's bedroom last night. He was careful to turn to the doorknob with the same reverence used to rotate Fortune's wheel. He avoided the floorboards that were not yet asleep, and he refrained from the moon's naked stare—lest he dare to twist the shadows (curled and purring) on the face of a victim. Freedom. How tame when his eyes were closed. How cavernous his sighs, soaked in dreams. How unconscious his skin—twitching but once —as Ignorance slipped the needle in. The syringe needs little plunging when the poison's mad for sin. And with such lust, Ignorance imagined, does a toxin court the blood: the violent attraction of a reaction that happens but once in a lifetime. But the blue-black was too silent. The eaves were not dropping. No trumpets sounded Satan's call to the rhythm of a slow heart stopping. There's no panic, no fear! What a peaceful death he's been given! A dire mistake. Ignorance leaned over the bed. Wound the tresses of Freedom's head, lustrous gold around fingers crooked and cocked like guns. He ripped him upward, from the sweet bliss of not knowing. Nearly snapped his spine, threw his eyelids wide open like a shudder. How the pupils dart in all directions when life is almost over. Freedom had no words. His tongue was twisted, contorted by devilish rhymes. And Ignorance breathed in, soul glinting—wicked tin, lips curling over streaming time. And he left the room alone as the sun peeked through the blinds and screamed at the horror lying twisted on the bed.