(number 9)

Click. Armed. Or was it his arm? He isn’t sure, but swears he feels the impact. He swears he knows somehow, he knows just how it feels to be the hammer, with just one chance to pound the metal casing, sending bullets to wherever bullets go. He lightly sighs and feels the gun become an extension of his arm: Fire-Arm. The cold steel texture of what was once a handle has gone numb, warmed and smoothed by the flesh and blood that is pumping through veins and past the grip before it pours into the chamber. His heart is swelling steadily, screaming perseverance (or at least it tries); but our blood is built to spill before its time.

Ideas are bulletproof, he reminds himself. A single bullet starts a revolution. Forty-five revolutions every minute sing a song in seven inches. If one hundred bullets start one hundred revolutions, doesn’t every bullet have a tune?

He needs to find the harmony, so he counts the bullets in the chamber as a single bead of sweat falls from where his hand became the gun, landing on his toe that he had shot an hour earlier; irony. Only he could ever salt these wounds.

He breathes in deep, and checks his watch: it’s 9:43. Good time for a revolution.

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