I killed him. He's dead. I killed him and ate him;
he tasted like an eagle I saw touch the sun and scorch to death, "Icarus" I think his name was. I found where the bird landed, tore out his majestic feathers, and sank teeth into the cooked muscles beneath. ...The roasted flesh of a wild eagle--that's what he tastes like. But he was frail; weak; there was hardly any meat on him. I am not sated. My teeth are still hungry, and my tongue needs to come back to its nest.

I'm wearing his skin now. Can you tell? I think he looks better like this--not only fashionable, but he doesn't have to suffer anymore.

In any case, it's nice to have some genuine leather to wear once in a while.