if I do not renounce the Prince of Darkness…all of it…all my social media profiles and phone sex personas, if I do not put it all out on paper to his satisfaction, tonight, as he requests, Karajan will…I don’t want to imagine…or perhaps I do. Anal porn Perhaps I crave this kind of attention. Karajan had an oxygen tank, and a syringe of dexamethasone ready, should I die before he wanted me to. But Karajan turns from me, looks out the window. If I bide my time, caress him, wait days, or weeks, ameliorate him with pleasant companionship, ply him with drink…wait for his slumber, and then, like a kat, tiptoe across the mushy lawn, scale the four meters at the east stone wall where it is lowest, leap down without breaking a bone (both my ankles are delicate), race through leagues of deep dark forest, the chaos that envelops us, this land—this estate, (which, not three days ago, was my land, years before, our land, and now, irrevocably, no man’s land, which is to say, Karajan’s) and I flee from this half-condemned, weather beaten mansion—even then, my thick wool
