The Devil Is In The Detail

When I shake the table, it causes the coffee in my cup to my come alive, rippling. I lift the cup. Warm in my hand. Take a sip. Will it burn the tip of my tongue?

Obsessed with the detail.

I’ve watched the Devil appear during pauses in conversation. Distant, I see him crouched amongst trees as I walk through dense woodland. Right now he is living in this blog post. Look closely and find him swathed in letters which rise and fall like the heaving breast of an asthmatic. He even came to me a few evenings ago bursting unannounced into my dream, his face pressed against mine.

The Devil is in the detail and I am obsessed with details.  When I go out, I check and re-check my attire; the position of my belt, the double-windsor of my tie. Occasionally my mind takes a third party perspective, analyzing the way in which I interact with people. Smile, firm and steady. The slightest glint of teeth only. Expressive eyes. Enthused. Alacritous.

I notice his presence the most when the details that cause him to stir concern my fighting; the angle of my fist, the rotation of my hip, the position of my chin. He watches me train, sitting comfortably in the corner and causing a state of disquiet in my soul which I use to summon liberal doses of fear etched fury.

The Devil is in the detail.

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