Automatic Writing

He frightened me. He was not so much a person as an accumulation of routine. Gaunt and wiry, he moved like shadows on dark alley walls. He moved to a curious rhythm, eyes like a man humming to himself. His fingers were constantly at motion. They were inkstained, dipped in shadow, from nights he spent holding newspapers into small figurines. Golems of history he called them, my homemade minions, with these I make history dance.