A Curio for Mala

Whithering and gently does the darkness come. Tapering over the landscape filling berths with its mysterious candor. It is the cool oblivion like sharp rocks at the bottom of a waterfall. With each haunted stare, I feel it soaking into my reason; grasping at thoughts with delicate tendrils. These fears only come to bear at dusk, for the imminent twilight shakes things loose from the dreamcatcher like a snowfall of black ashen memories. I dare not ponder for long, for those thoughts wrought by the dark become indistinguishable from mine own.
In this year of mercy, 1807, have I finally encroached on that which was the domus of mire. With the help of a polished crystal I have focused myself within its intricate geometries, and begun to sort the ego from the contaminated id. Seeing for the first time the extent of my damage, I must now relegate my tale or bear it to the tomb forevermore. My greatest fear is that. In giving it substance thus, it may germinate and grow in the hearts of men.

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