I Only Write in Darkness

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I only write in darkness.

I wonder if it’s for the same reason that vampires wake at sunset, and ghosts wander by night, and werewolves change by the full moon, and witches come out in October when the days have started to grow impatiently short, and shadows are no longer sharp reflections of obvious things, but mutable black masses that can appear as the pointy ears of a cat the first look, and as the grinning fangs of a watching closet beast the second…and impossibly distant planets beam their lights among the beguiling stars, and aliens descend from them to take captives, and men poison their inhibitions guiltless with whiskey at the first cricket’s chirp, and women drop their clothes in dark bedrooms, and pitied inhabitants beyond the arctic circle read by blue lamps to stave off madness, and gangsters make hits and dump bodies in colorless rivers, and smoke a flickering cigarette against the blackness like they only just changed a car tire, and go home to their gently snoring wives and kids, and sleep away the bright, vivid, sun-bleached, magicless, murderless mornings.

That must be why.

2 thoughts on “I Only Write in Darkness

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