The simple white four-legged stool is his state, the Balisong is his sceptre and the book is his crown.
He is the unnoticed, the unnoticeable man, passing by on the streets. The person you sat next to on the subway yesterday. An everyman who orchestrates the alleyways, he is the one who balances the books by taking a small quota of lives from Tokyo, day after day, night after night.
He is loved, it only took a sweater – a teal, snug and home-knitted monstrosity – to play act the role of the honest son. Normal people are so prone to his guile. He was kissed on the head yesterday at the family gathering and to-day he is once again the daring freedom fighter, swinging his fist to fight repression. The wardrobe has changed, there is a smooth transition into khakhi capris and the white shirt and it's the costume he uses when communicating through encrypted channels.
For a time, he can't be the terrorist, defying the unspeakable odds. He broke a rib yesterday – a well aimed punch –and only deftly avoided a knife wound. The should not be infighting, but his ranks are divided. The gap between freedom fighter and terrorist is awfully small, after all, the terms are the same with different connotations. Maybe tomorrow he will be the librarian, the quiet bibliophile or the hedonistic sociopath in search of entertainment; a sparkling flute of Carbernet Sauvignon in one hand and the sound of Bach's Sonatas a living river through his ears.
Those are life's little pleasures and he has gradually learned to let them go, one by one.
This will be the last time he turns himself to the piano as he has turned his hands more and more towards the art of killing, rather than the art of creating. He opens the case with the care of a lover's hands; removing the velvet covering. The Tokyo night is resplendent in its lights. But the city that never sleeps is crafted by Sibyl and his relationship with the System is resentful at best and hateful at its worst.
God, his followers might believe, holding their hands up to the skies as if he could light up their candles and be their miracle. The Devil, others would pronounce him, because he seduces, corrupts and should be damned to the eternity of the same brimstone and fire of the Dante's Inferno. Yet, he is fallible and he is mortal. His love can be selfish and it can be spiteful, but it is love all the same and there is no one else in this cruel world to love these poor fools. He loves the ones he has condemned to die, the just, the unjust, the pacifists and the antagonists.
In all his incarnations, he is the dreamer, destined to walk amongst them, to converse with them and to be with them in their time of need. Necessity and the swift tide of fate has demanded that he walk out of the shadows and into the light. To reveal himself. But he won't let them see –
The blood; it has congealed on his hands.
The LED clock on his bedsit flickers as he tosses and turns, trapped in a fitful sleep until the waking hour.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown
- King Henry IV