And the witching hour, as it falls upon us, calls upon us. To stretch and stride and weather the tides of a nether space. Twitch not, twist not, for dark velvet buoyant cushions carry us precariously, floating as we are upon the torrid seas of Morpheus, and none can return from the folly of a spill into that cold drink. The darkness above mirrors the abyss below. Sea and sky so interchangeable that we may as well be floating through space, ferried by a godless ether.
There are breakers.
Moments long since passed and, very nearly, forgotten stand out in the swirl of the surreal. Lampposts. Markers. Breakers. Baiting us. Chasing us to the surface of our slumber. Hunting us. Startled, fearing that we may be ripped away from the solace of the void, we dive deeper. We burrow into the darkest darkness. Deep into the abused and haunted corners of unnavigable inner space. The only return is past those same breakers, those same monsters which chased us down here in the first place. Today is a good day to die. In this dark corner patience and cowardice are synonymous.
