Many things move in the dark, slipping through the undercurrents of unconciousness. Squirming silhouettes and wriggling sparkles undulate behind the stone door.
The knocking is no more: the voice, the light. Riches swallowed by the night.
The dark is so intense it swallows sound and touch. The gang reaches out for one another, calls out for one another, begs the black to give up the ghost.
What they want is here, what they know is not.
Logan Bright — Works 