Blood on the Rails
It was an altogether ordinary morning, and as I usually do, I picked up my knife and pressed it against my neck and face. All my whiskers fell down into the bowl of the sink where the water obligingly carried them out of sight. But then I thought about the state of our nation and gripped the knife harder and cut myself open so that the blood flowed freely. I was taken aback. Then God said: “What could be more holy than a bleeding face?”