...In the unseen ventricles of your heart, behind your tired eyes, in the corners of the sneer of your mouth, waiting, waiting... hiding in secret cobwebby membranes within your fevered brain, a fleeting shadow between the creases within. We both know I will emerge, an unseen tremor in your hands guiding you to - yes! - the cleaver, so sharp, so butcheresque. You know what is hidden within you, and I know what is hidden, buried rudely in the back garden...

I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?