They call it the blade of justice. As if I were their Grim Reaper turned into a snake. How naive, those mammals are. It's a job, and yes, I'm doing it. I perform my best possible service. But it's just a job. Not some kind of a calling. Just something I'm very good at.
I wonder if a tree will know that the axe is hitting it. Hit, after hit, after hit. Each time a small chunk of the tree falls off. Hardly noticeable at first ... and yet, the tree will fall. One more quickly, the other later.
And also here my axe meets each time exactly the mark, which it has to hit. But in the end, what will fall? Of whom exactly am I the executioner here, I ask myself.
mischa.
