Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.

Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.

Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.

Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.

Maybe you saw her first? Caught a glimpse between the lines, between the letters, like a ghost in the mirror, a ghost in the wings?

Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

At the heart of any terror is the fear of losing what we find meaningful.