On how I killed a beast.

There is a rat in my house. He is roaring to hamper the road to happiness. I know his intent: the small little beast is provoking my senses, cleansing my bed, suffering in my head. When I stare at his small delicate paws, I wish they were in an altar and worshiped by mankind. Would not be terrific to tremble in the troublesome tears of my fellow, my pal, my darling? I loathe you, do you hear me? Loathe your insufferable nature and nauseating poetry, I just want them to take wing and go to the other side of the world, especially near an atomic bomb, or, ah, what is the term? Mass destruction weapons… yes, this is where I want you to be, suffering physic pain for taking the wind out of my sails, for pulling me down a notch, for giving my hopes more hopes than no hope was able to do. Come on, close your eyes and feel: there are fusillades of grieves penetrating your body, there are unspeakable truths hammering your head, there are exclamation points going through your heat and your conscience telling you, whispering to you they are much right for doing that: you deserve that my small little beast. Do you see what I mean? Do you feel what I feel? No, you are too small and insignificant to know anything beyond a bourgeoning mania of respecting children and family: this is a failed institution in a putrid world? Do you hear me? Do you feel my pain? I do not suppose you do. You are nothing and nothing shall remain with insignificance. I take the broom, approach to him, I smash his head with a rusty broom. I smile at the sight of the blood and his brains all over the place. Now, I just have to clear the mess. I am happy again.