It began innocently enough. I’ve heard the maxim that some humans try to fight it, but eventually we all become who we truly are, and I am not one to claim immunity from, or the ability to rise above, my humanity. I began dabbling with it in my youth at the time most adolescent males of the human species do so—when the martial influences (blood, war, power, love, and the like) assert their pull upon the poorly fortified human soul; or if you prefer more colloquial language, when the male adolescent’s balls drop. At its inception, it was sport. Pilfer an electronic device from a gymnasium locker. Lift a candy bar from a local grocer. It felt good and it felt right. I was adept at it. I never got caught, and I never learned my lesson. Even at a tender age I began to tap my take on justice and morality to justify my trespasses. I never executed such deeds for the possession, or so I rationalized to myself. I performed them for justice, and for the satiating thrill that doling out justice remits to the yearning soul. It was my bid for equality, and my brand of socialism. Steal from the happy to give to the sad. Slip a solider toy. Lift a candy bar. Make everyone equal—as equally angry and miserable as my world and me.

    From this foundation, my transgressions against the brotherhood of man only increased, and I budded into a clever and brash young man. I watched as the mark of adolescent mischief faded from all of my peer’s eyes, and attended the mirror frequently, wondering why my own eyes had not yet matured. The passion was deeper inside of me, and could not be regarded just as a passing phase. And having never felt the cold hand of justice upon my hide—whether from destiny or luck or some other term humans love to assign to indescribable anomalies of the Universe—my natural inclinations to steal and sneak about were never checked. At that point society and culture had fumbled their opportunity to reform or segregate me in a correctional or religious forum for convalescence. I was left to walk among the people, to hone and purify my innate talents and propensities, and reap the world.

    I had been an angry young man, just as many young men are, and justifiably so. However, unlike many angry young men, I did not pursue the quenching of my anger. I did not dilute it with intoxicants or indulge it with excessive dalliances with partners of the opposite sex. I did not pay it off with fancy trifles, or attempt to rise above it by means of society’s arbitrary scales of success. Rather, recognizing its tendency to be a fleeting thing in young adult humans, I cherished my anger, and I did so above all other traits or talents or possessions. My anger was my volition, my muse, my passion, my propulsion, my identity. It was one of the last remaining germs of my origination point that the world had not yet quashed. I wanted to be sad. I wanted to be lonely. I wanted to be angry, so that the enthusiasm, vigor, and vision that my despondency for the path of man afforded could propel my focus every day toward the realization of my true dreams, and my true dreams for the world that I both loathed and loved.

    But my anger was not where the vitality that pursued me to carry out iniquities emanated from. It was far more basic than that. I enjoyed it. And not just the payoff. I enjoyed every turn of this means of bread winning—the planning, the implementation, the getaway. It was all pleasurable to me. In fact I might assert that the payoff was the point I relished the least because it marked the end of the endeavor, and thus the end of the pleasurable happenings, and it was always mired in certitude like so many clichéd narratives in which the ending is always “the bad guys lose, and the good guys win.” The value resides in how you get there. That is what is absorbing and fulfilling, and that is what is true, because the clichéd closing rarely is. The pride in the ownership of a possession is not always as strong as the desire to attain it. Remember the childhood toys in which weeks were spent pleading for their purchase, and once acquired, their fun was drained conclusively in an afternoon? Observe how trophies collect dust and revert back to refuse to decompose and populate the dust to blanket the trophies of the future when the owner passes on. But the owner carries the storyline of those trophies with him into the cosmos and possesses it eternally. That is why I loved every turn of a caper, and the monetary payoff was just more of a benign point in the future.

    I loved the tactile pleasure of handling the devilishly-contrived tools of the thievery trade that feel so cunning and well crafted in the palm, fit so warmly and smartly in a perpetrator’s articles, and leave him nameless, without contriteness on their part, as he flees the job. They are tools that are designed to crack or circumvent the common, unspoken laws that bond entities to their possessions, and bond every man to humanity in the universal thirst for justice and the rightful will of the individual—laws that act redundantly when they are penned within the penal code because they are so intuitive and natural.

    And I loved the somatic awareness that tingles as it pervades through you when you decide a given night is right in its particulars for plying the trade. Indulge me for a moment and imagine that the very lines of text on this page are representations of the pathways that individuals travel through life. Regard the tendency of these lines to run parallel and never intersect, respecting each other's space. Of course if a page of text were a more realistic portrayal of the life paths of individuals, as opposed to just a convenient one, the lines would curve and dart and backtrack and dance, but they would still rarely intersect. But where they did intersect would be a marker for where and when a crime occurred, whether was a murder, rape, assault, adultery, or theft. Crime and conflict occur where a life path collides with another by design. Accidents occur where two life paths collide by folly. Where two life paths near is where a misdemeanor occurs to discourage intersection. The same conclusions can be applied when regarding the collective will of countries, regions, religions, and races. Where their wills intersect, a marker of war is assigned. And not to draw the point out, but it is interesting to highlight the destruction that occurs when two heavenly bodies intersect in Space, innocently following their predetermined paths. But this is all fairly common philosophy. What I truly want to offer for your consideration is what transpires within an individual when one willfully decides to alter their life path in a manner that traverses the empty area between the lines and eventually intrudes on the pathway of another individual. It is a vain enterprise to suppose that I will be able to convey the aspects of the happenings one finds themselves among when executing this maneuver, but nonetheless I progress.

    While in the empty space and traveling on a perpendicular trajectory to another man's life path under premeditation, one communes with a vibrant collaboration of concentrated carnal forces and pleasures, and softened ethereal powers and delights. Possession becomes a lie. Invisibility becomes a trait. Strength, perception, agility, charisma, vitality, and wisdom all exceed the bonds of your worldly limitations, as the vessel for your worldly limitations holds communion with the Earth, and the Unknown, and a chalice full of bliss that bubbles the senses similar to sexual pleasure, but only if the entire body is a genital, heightened in its perception of feeling immensely.

    Now, for those who espouse that in the preceding paragraph I retired the stoic biographer’s pen and grasped a poet’s implement—and to be sure anyone who has frequented the empty space does not populate this group of critics—I have a qualifying point, or actually two of them, to forward. The first is that I have the unique authority to communicate these matters in such artistic shades because I am a wily veteran of the empty space's effects, not only experiencing them during the itineraries of criminal affairs, but sometimes lingering within these regions for the sole purpose of experimentation, documenting and rationalizing their nature and visage, mapping their corridors and crannies. The second is that this region and its effects are not just all about super strength and titillated genitals. There is a counterbalance, as in all aspects of nature. The manners and protocols of this region that exists between the life paths of two autonomous individuals appear quite chaotic and irrational when they arrive at the brain, even if there is an underlying order, however imperceptible to the average human it might be. As an example, you can fancy that you have situated yourself on a brilliantly-fashioned intersecting pathway with another individual, when an entirely different individual traveling on a totally unanticipated pathway—possibly even carrying a greater momentum than your own—intersects with you, interrupting your will, and resulting in the divestment of your own freedom and/or possessions. This formula manifests itself frequently, if not commonly, because of the imperceptible forces present within the empty space, and because there are entities drafted exclusively to patrol this region and maintain order in it. Even further, there is the often-neglected but always-present possibility of your own path being transgressed at any moment completely by accident.

    It is also necessary to mention the issues that surround the corrupting and inebriating habits of power. Many a careless cutpurse has delivered himself into bondage due to expending too much attention relishing his power rather than rationalizing his business. The powers that one wields within the empty space do not fit soundly inside the human template, yet unfortunately, one of the side effects of these powers is the fallacious notion that they do. The capacities one is afforded in these moments often behave similarly to that of a speeding vehicle. They are too fast, too malignant to be steered, and can only be aimed. Quick-witted wisdom is indispensable in this realm. But don’t allow these long-winded qualifying points to convince you that I do not cherish my time within the empty space on a collision course with another. But it is only because I am one of the few who was born to dwell there. It is in accordance with my will.

    But still, swimming through the empty space is not my most favored turn of the craft. This distinction falls to the planning. Because even though the previously mentioned phases bestow to you great joy and pleasure, pleasure is a short-term sensation. Just ask the addict, or the slut. Pleasure colors such a famished speck on a timeline, and rarely has the vigor to even make it through a cycle of the Sun. Fulfillment is the word that lists longevity as one of its attributes, and fulfillment is what is imparted through the planning. This is because planning is the creation. Everything else is just implementation.

    When I was younger, I quickly discovered a passion for games of strategy—chess and others usually formulated around war scenarios. I also quickly discovered my prejudice against gaining victory in these games by conventional or straightforward means. I preferred more the trap ploy or the abrupt, convoluted flanking maneuver, and so much so that the mastering and implementation of a fresh and uniquely-orchestrated tactic was far more rewarding to me than the victory the tactic might or might not earn. The aesthetics of watching the brilliant creation of my mind unfold on the battlefield was what was rewarding, or fulfilling. And then during a subsequent bout—with my rival’s eyes splayed over the gaming surface and guessing at the perversion of my next scheme—I would order the most conventional of scenarios, marching straight down the gut uneventfully as the enemy floundered, over-deployed on its flanks and leery of my true intentions, because this, in its moment, was the most unconventional option available.

    It is apparent to me now using the reflection of this biography that I carried this stylistic preference with me from my younger years and applied it to my adult campaigns. For example, after I spent the required amount of time learning and applying the orthodox methods of breaking and entering, I decided to branch off from the traditional teachings and formulate my own discipline. The establishment of the rogue trades was mostly concerned with the thief’s ability to gain entry into structures by circumventing the obstacles applied to preserve the integrity of openings that already existed—doors and windows and such. I found this unappealing, for it seemed to me that the anti-theft precautions a given structure boasted were usually concentrated upon, if not obsessed with, these preexisting entryways. So I decided to commence a study on how one would enter a structure if there were no doors, windows, ventilation outlets, or other such hatchways—how one could enter successfully and discreetly through solid obstacles: walls, floors, or roofs. I had not one preliminary theory of how I would be able to implement this solid obstacle entry when I first adopted it as my discipline, but that is what enticed me to the study.

    I spent some time studying the ingredients and makeup of different types of walls. I learned about “wet” walls carrying plumbing, “live” walls conveying power infrastructure, “load bearing” walls that were unsafe to penetrate, and the general habit of walls to directly face occupied areas that could bear witness to, or easily document a breech. Similar conclusions were derived from my study of floor structures, and tunneling seemed excessively labor intensive. Also, I desired to construct a tactic that could be somewhat universal—one that was immune from insisting upon significant customization for each specific job. I needed a template, if you will. Eventually, my research and requirements steered me toward the roof as the medium to express my art of entry, which I must admit I was partial to even before enlisting my research. I had always harbored an appreciation for the view and solitude of a roof, and ever since my youth I had indulged in late-night excursions from housetop to housetop, testing my dexterity on a jump, my balance on a heavy slope, my coyness as I slipped past a snoozing dog or peeped at a late-night suburban backyard happening, exploring routes that took me from roof to tree to roof to wall-top and led me as far as neighborhood blocks, or farther, without touching the ground once. The rooftops were my element, as they had been for many cat burglars of older centuries. They put one in touch with my youth and my occupational lineage, and put me out of the touch of a large share of the dangers inhabiting the empty space discussed earlier.

    Here was the gist of my process: I began by selecting a neighborhood, preferably a suburban neighborhood zoned and constructed in predictable, cookie-cutter layouts, as is their norm, free from the density of eyes and ears of urban situations, and the isolation of rural dwellings. I also required a green area adjacent to the neighborhood somewhere along its border. This was not a difficult request and allowed me to access the neighborhood on foot, leaving any vehicle that might have been necessary one step removed from the covert business, denying law enforcement their favorite and most prolific tool to identify, track, and eventually apprehend assailants. Once inside the neighborhood I produced a set of footpads to silence my footfalls, and stole to the rooftops. The first nights in a given area were committed merely to reconnaissance, though no notes were sketched, for these would constitute evidence and would generate a dependency on their presence on my person at all times. Instead I decided to entrust my findings to memory where they would be free to mingle with my wisdom and instincts, and when called upon, they could be freely flowing from the relaxed and astute deportment of my subconscious faculties—a much more pleasing prospect than struggling to decipher scribbles on paper during the quick tempo of a fevered getaway. Once I had completed my inquiries (the boy has sport practice every Tuesday evening, the family attends a restaurant for dinner every Friday night, etc.) I’d idle patiently until favorable conditions manifested themselves. Once there was little or no moonlight—either from the moon’s phase or cloudiness—and at least some wind to weaken and disperse the noise to be made, I could be found on the cover of an unfortunate domicile, making a slight incision with a small, low-voltage, battery-powered wood cutting carpenter’s tool, usually just behind the chimney for added concealment.

    As a general statement, roofs are made of a very thin membrane of matter, usually a 3/4-inch-thick piece of composite wood material, a very thin layer of tar paper material, and the shingles, which during the epoch of my criminal career it was popular to manufacture from the synthetic material known as fiberglass, which can be terrifically malleable when manipulated properly, and can adequately disguise an incision made in the roof surface just about the length and width of a man’s shoulder blades placed expertly between the running of the roof’s truss supports. If this discrepancy in the roof’s skin is ever discovered, it is easily explained as one of the many custom-sized pieces needed to complete the roof surface by cutting down standard-sized building materials, especially to complete the difficult angles the protruding chimney creates. The cut also must be made with an outwardly expanding angle, similar to one effected at the top of a pumpkin to divest its insides but leave its superstructure unchanged. Then for weatherization, a small strip of gasket material can be installed around the edge of the loose piece of roofing, lest dripping water hints of a breech. However, gently manipulating the fiberglass can mostly weatherize the opening as well.

    At this point the security and sanctity of the domestic dwelling has been violated, and all of its contents are subject to seizure. A simply modified over-the-counter vehicle radar detector retailed to alert drivers of upcoming speed traps on the highway can be adapted to alert one to the presence of motion detection equipment within the home, though rarely is this an issue, not because these devices have not been installed, but because the illusion of security has been kept alive and healthy in the particular area, and the motion detectors have not been armed. Incidentally, the tendency of law enforcement to habitually leave radar equipment on even when it is not germane to their current duties awards this device dual functionality to warn of nearby police presence.

    Now,, having gained access to the attic, the home proper can be entered by use of the convenient folding ladder thoughtfully supplied by the homeowner, though sometimes a jumping descent is required. But the attic itself should not be insulted with just a cursory glance. As many an experienced fence knows, the attic can be a holding place for many sought-after items, and sometimes can fulfill a whole night’s take itself, or a whole week’s. However, this is not the common scenario, and the lower levels must eventually be compromised as well.

    At this moment I know that some of you are imagining me dropping from the ceiling of a domestic home and running wanton, wild, helter-skelter through it, throwing gobs of jewelry, consumer electronics, antique candlesticks, and such into a large cat bag, with a ski mask shrouding my menacing and desperate face. I cannot blame you for molding this image, for this is the concept that has been sold into the culture of the common thief, and I must admit that some of my comrades in the rogue professions fit this dramatization well. But please, do not belittle my standing by lumping me in with this sum, for if you have, then you have misinterpreted the style of my exploits. My philosophy calls for quality, not quantity, and more importantly, for me to keep the charade that no crime has occurred alive and well. I am only interested in a few small choice items from each victim, meaning items of large value and low mass—expensive trifles and heirlooms tucked away in a closet or hiding in the recesses of a china cabinet. Then I flee from the crime scene, placing the sliver of roof back behind me, leaving behind no hints of a burglary occurring, supplying no need to query witnesses or collect evidence or study surveillance footage or send out for DNA research to undeniably finger me from the rest of humankind as the perpetrator. Sometimes the items are not even missed and eventually forgotten. Sometimes the items are missed, but not for weeks or months, or even years afterward, and then their absence is blamed on bad memory, poor organization, or an out-of-control teenager’s drug addiction or theft fetish. Meanwhile I have long since liquidated these items well before there is any chance to flag them as stolen, and patiently wait for my little pumpkin to mature new seeds for the next time I will haunt its neighborhood, darken its row, and lift the top to reach down and claim my harvest.

    Now imagine this blueprint being replicated hundreds of times, furtively infesting the suburban environs clinging to a city, burrowing under the guise of tranquility. And this was not my only exploit mind you, though it was my primary one. I had many other smaller creative occupations, and modified versions of my central one germane to industrial and business properties. Don’t worry, if time permits I will get around to divulging details of these other rackets as well, for I identify that the last pages have garnered keen interest and elevated levels of advantageous brain chemicals in you, for it is an inherent symptom when transcribing items of a criminal nature. Stealing is wrong, and as with anything that is wrong, it flawlessly tantalizes a human’s curiosity and exacerbates their inherent evil tendencies very similar to a sexual manner as was covered before. If you have recently been a victim of a crime, you might be angry with this account at the moment, but you are still curious. You likely danced with me on the rooftops, fit yourself into my shoes, slipped down the cunningly-crafted hole in the roof, and found your own valuables to wickedly filch. You cannot help but garner such fancies, and be curious of all criminal doings. They are as much a part of you as your liver, or your lungs, or the love of your family. The human propensity to steal is just as natural as the propensity to abhor it.

    But if you find yourself with your nose pointed at this very page, hoping that you are just completing the initial chapter of a fun, entertaining, criminal account that will expire with a twisted ending so brilliantly convoluted that it will make great fodder for conversations at intellectual social happenings, return this work to the shelf and never bother it again. For even though I am a thief, this is just a word given to only one of my worldly vocations. My plight, my theme, my destiny are much darker, more ethereal, and more extensive than that. I have no peer on this planet. I am an isolated soul. I exist like a foreigner to my time, to my place, to my culture, and to the world and humanity. I sought out my destiny, and found I was created to be like a fist of God, or a fist of the Unknown. I am justice incarnate. I am a novelist. I am a terrorist.