It was so deep inside the dark that light, wading through the charcoal sea, arrived breathless at its door, too hungry and weak to knock, disintegrating rapidly, fading into the ripple-less night. Every night. And so it stayed buried, feeding on the solitude, on the molten ebony quiet, on its own mind, till it no longer remembered why it had come to be there, why it had come to be.
Again, the light burrowed further into the murk, a shadow of itself. How could it stop when it knew there was still something there, unseen, unrevealed? What if it had life, what if it was life? The universe furrowed its brow, the stars went into a huddle. Hadn’t it been said, that some things, some questions, even some answers were best left alone, to die?
from behind a cloud
the evening sun tries to catch
the rainbow painter