The edge of that razor smarts. A tight pinch as it moves from hair to skin, breaking both with the ease of sin. Four blades of mighty steel glory, waging a war on the fields of my hollow cheeks. Old soldiers armed with nought but swords, old iron and ruined shields. That razor had been through a **** storm, been with me for so long. I could change it, replace its crude coarse blades, its worn and ragged handle. I could buy a machine so sleek that it would rend hair from skin and flesh from bone. But I like this grizzled construct of rough steel and chipped plastic. This ******* knew me as a stranger before he embraced me as a brother. I like him. Him and his manic chip toothed metal grin. I've got friends like him, not many still breathing but they count. Old broken things still ticking well past they're expiration date. I've got brothers in arms and brothers in caskets too. Strangers turned friends turned brethren and then dead again. I've seen too many faces fade from life to dust. It is not in god, but a razor's edge that I trust.