In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart

That line comes from Yeats. The poem "The Circus Animal's Desertion." I always liked Yeats. I mean, most people can only quote "The Second Coming," which really bugs me, because he had so many other great poems. "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death," "Sailing to Byzantium," and heck, even "The Stolen Child." Just read this:

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

See, unlike the ridiculous amount of allusions and mumbo jumbo in T. S. Eliot's poems, Yeats actually wrote about things. His early stuff had a lot of Irish mythology in it. His older stuff was mainly about growing older. "The Circus Animal's Desertion" is about his well of imagination drying up and him being unable to write anything anymore. "The foul rag and bone shop of the heart" is the empty page. He's lost the will to fill it.

That's sort of like me. However, I'm no poet. I'm what you would colloquially call a hitman. I kill people for money.

Perhaps I should but that in the past tense. Because I don't think I can do it anymore. I mean, it's not the morality of the work - most of the people I kill are bad people, some of them worse than me - but there was an...incident. Something happened during my last job.

I have to write it all down just so I can make sense of it. This whole thing is probably incredibly incriminating, but I don't care. I need to make sense of it. I need to write it down.

This will be my foul rag and bone shop of the heart.