I know you cannot speak. Trust me. This is for the best.
Perhaps you have heard the stories. That I cut their tongues out and ate them, slit them like grain sacks and swallowed their innards like borscht. Or that I was in KGB and went about on the Moscow trains with the organs of my victims in my attache case.
These tales are fabulous, imaginative, even terrifying. I give you the choice to believe them or not. I will neither conform nor deny my alleged reputation.
Your eyes tell me that you wish to know why. This wish is a human failing. We are comforted by cause, yet words are inadequate. An entire world lies beyond language. It is a perverse irony, then, that words are our only tool for the understanding of causes.
Is experience itself a sort of understanding? This question you will soon settle for yourself.
Based on a true story.