unedited draft 30 min sexiness

my knife has been kept sharpened at all times, and my sheath is crafted with a strong leather, sewn with robust threads; my knife has not been a tool of murder --- situations have rarely digressed to such perilous violence ---, nor has it been in its primary functions a tool of hunting; flaying; butchering: i lack the skills, and besides, i am starting to fear i am not capable of killing something that lives outside of slowly killing myself, spoiled with riches and conveniences as i have become softly over the lapse of years; more so my knife has been one of self-harm; my camping-fire have rarely seen the meat of a killed animal --- mostly i have gathered my foods from the ground and from the bush; out of cowardice on one hand, out of laziness on another: no, i am no killer, not yet, but i am one who cuts; there is where my experience nests; how many times have i not armoured the coward gladiator in me the spatha of burning passions, the sword that cuts right through the bloodlines and memories of all passed things, before entering the jubilant colloseum of my body; arena of human flesh? have i not still, puny and pathetic as my trembling cuts have often been, revelled in the sense of rebellion with my drug-fiery eyes fixed on the small gutters the blade leaves in its wake, flooding with the brightest blood, glowing with a spiteful requital of renunciation; i have held the dagger firmly and its numinous qualities have entranced me manyfold; i have meditated deeply on necro-phenomenology, and how all flesh is so eager to come apart like the red sea at the command of the prophet... it has invited me to consult with the all reveries of the graveyard and it has battered perspectives into my frontal lobe, whipping about like hell-storms; i have been listening to the oracles, for whom i came in distress, heeding the intuition i had of future being comforting and rewarding --- wrong. the foretellers have been mean and cruel and they have lectured me harshly; they have been scathing me like the Lord scathed Cain and they have taught me the classes in the ethos of war and love: i have been brought afore the Great Elk, Deathly Scholar, for he is all-powerful, and he has spoken to me; i have been caught in the rancidity of his breath, for which i have genuflected: he has spoken and I have written down. So have I learned a very complicated lesson of life, and so have i understood the golden rule amongst a hundred others... that suicidal ideation is a tool less of practical self-death than it is one of affirming absolute freedom...