“Anger is a short madness.”

- Horace

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It’s a fleeting though, it barely lasts a heartbeat; kill him. It registers and then it’s gone replaced by clenched jaws and ground teeth, prickles of nails in your palm, the pound of blood in your chest, your neck, above the eye. The mind lets the thoughts loose and they flee from the blacking silence that fills the skull.

A blank mind and a body full of impulses; the binds and belts of control snap and fists fling.

Bruised knuckles and cold breaths into hot lungs and the belt’s snap back into place and the bindings return with the thoughts. The heart slows and so does the hammer pulse, until it’s no longer felt.

This is anger; powerful and fleeting.