A member of the prestigious order of the Philosophe Knights, KF is a man obviously disgusted with Malton's current state of affairs. This man is never seen without several books. Judging by the picture on the right, you can assume that He is terrible at picture editing.
Currently Reading: The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoevsky), The Problems of Philosophy (Bertrand Russell), Down and Out in Paris and London (George Orwell)
Humming: John Cage's "four minutes, thirty-three seconds"
A Snapshot of my life, by DT
The man screamed as he gazed at the dark liquid pouring from his abdomen. His bowels had been slashed open with a very long, sharp knife, and many of his vital organs punctured or split. It was undoubtedly a mortal wound. His assailant stood over him, watching him intently from behind a white mask, his head cocked slightly to the side as he listened carefully to the sound of the man’s cry of agony.
They called him KF, this darkly-clad man who walked with a confidant, non-aggressive stride. He’d been hailed as a musical genius in Vienna, given rave reviews in Paris, and had been the toast of both London and New York before he retired to a modest house in Malton. He was a man who took music from every aspect of the environment around him, and he captured each detail - the wind in the trees, the flight of a bird, the hustle and bustle of city life, the quiet melodies of a cottage in the country - so well that critics exclaimed it was as if they were hearing an image. While he did appreciate such praise, the man they called KF privately believed that most of those critics were pompous, overanalyzing fools who appraised the pureness of art as if there was some mathematical formula set down by society that each artist somehow had to conform to, whether they were surrealists or singers. He knew that art - true, pure, unfiltered, uncensored art was beyond the grasp of the most ambitious of critics, and that there were no formulas to follow, only the passion of creation. And he carried on with his passion, the composition of music, in the darkest days of Malton.
And this is why he had followed the overweight, uncultured man to the empty, ravaged pub. He needed to find a new melody, a new sound, a new environment to bring to life. His last effort at his newest symphony had met with disaster. The sound was inconsistent, the melody was off, the imagery carried by one movement to the next did not flow as it should have. He needed something new. The dying man began a new wave of howling.
Ahhhh, that was perfect. Simply exquisite.
The composer knelt on the dirty floor, dug out a long sheet of paper and a fountain pen from the satchel which hung from a strap on his shoulder down to his side. The pen had no ink - it never did, these days - and he instead dipped the tip of the pen carefully into the spreading pool of blood on the ground. He cocked his head back once more, concentrating on the pitch of the frantic wail, and began to compose a new movement. The two men stayed inside that pub for some time, one kneeling upon one knee, his hands hard at work taking down the dictation the other gave; the other sprawled belly-up on the trash-cluttered floor, his pale, openmouthed head propped upright against an upturned table, his injuries in full view. At long last, the dying man coughed out his final, tortured, gurgling dirge, and the kneeling man sighed contentedly.
“You have done me a great favor,” said the man they called KF, “For you have given me the music of of an imperfect death.”
And, using the dark blood of his victim, he marked down on his sheet of paper the melody of a man’s last breath.
I'm trying to cut back on templates.
"Ignorance, when it is voluntary, is criminal" - Samuel Johnson