sitting, slipping, sliding into the basement, the lower half of night, of hell. lights out, candles snuffed, the smell of old wicks and candle wax float through the cracks and empty spaces dull with blackened, tarnished hands that lie still in the lap of night. silence is pounding like sea storms into eardrums, reverberating a deafened, aching void, a void that eats up the night like a hungry ghoul, a vampire sucking the spaces away to neither sit nor stand. hanging are portraits of those who passed this way before me.
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