It started a sickly pale stream. Soon, it was a gush, thick with spores of madness.
Moonshine scratched upon his window glass. Inside his room though, darkness absolute. The song kept piling on the warm floor, tangled spools of tape. And the river flowed back and forth, back and forth. He got out and sat upon the ledge, by the cat, expecting to finally meet the moonshine. But the moon tonight was heavy, a bright dent upon the night. The darkness trickled down like viscous tar. Like copper blood. What a night, he sighed. What a bloody night.
The twisted arms of sorrow wrapped him like Muslin. And the cat murred.
Hello, he said.