This one is too kind these days,

like a small child looking forward to Christmas,

making every last possible effort to win his mother's heart.

But this one's not looking forward to Christmas.

He has done something wrong,

and has found delight in his sadistic actions.
He already knows what his pen will write of me,

of things yet to be done in a figure he does not know.

His paranoia has a firm grip on his pen.

And in this he is happy.

Suspiciously so.