i will tell a story like you have never read before. a story of love and passion, of day and night, hands and feet, sky and ocean. words that glide gently across your eye and cascade free-falling into your soul. i tell you that i sit here and write this alone in the dark, it envelopes me, the screen like a camp-fire in the dark of night. staying concentrated on my words i ignore the way the pitch-black of darkness just over my shoulder calls me to look and stare forever. tormented by thought, i know that you share at least this with me. sit in the dark of night when you read this, listen to your inner voice tempting you to do things. Dance with a flower in your hand in this darkness until your eyes crave the coldness of night before you begin to read the story that i write. Please, you must delve into what i speak of and feel as if nothing surrounds you, until the walls around you no longer exist. Now reach up into the air and pick a strawberry. . .hold it close to your nose and smell it, smell the sweet bitterness. squeeze it until it mashes in your hands and swirl it across your face, like you swirl in mesmerizing twirls across the room. Hear a creek or movement in the room with you? Do not look, hold steady and follow me on this journey of a story. . .do not be scared but embrace the cold, fear and solitude. You must become part of the story, you must become the words, do not react to fear or feelings of the energy approaching you, be it dead or undead. i tell a story of loneliness and love, emptiness and caressing, of kissing tenderly and crying all the while. sadly, i tell a story too far gone to matter now my night-time reader. we have both descended to depths from which we may never return. You possibly. . . me, never.