undead ovenbird Your eyes are the wrong colour—hazel where they should be black like the empty pit where your soul once lived. When the boy is stabbed in the back by the curved blade of an ancient dagger you drag him into the darkness under a table laid with a cloth that touches the ground. Later you pour water from a silver bowl and it mixes with the blood draining from his body and you make clean what surely would have stained without your intervention. You are made of the same stuff as the night. I’m made for ripping up all the pages you’ve covered with greasy graphite and replacing them with the deadly touch of morning. You tell me that the boy survived. It shouldn’t be possible. But I’m beginning to believe in the impossible, one clouded miracle at a time. 260516 what's it to you? who go blather from