The Subtle Arts of Murder and Persuasion

The dark crow man sits and stares into oblivion into cold 
into nothingness; it's snowing in his mind. He is created 
himself in his own image.
Lust held for him means naught, a knock on the door brings 
no smile to his cruel lips; the welcome in a woman's eyes 
hold nothing for him.
Alone on his haunches the hair raises on the back of his 
neck. His dead eyes pierce the night. As his gaze falls 
down on the city it fills him the method ascertained, 
conviction. He knows what to do and moves to commit the 
deed.