(I wrote this five years ago. I don’t know why.)
The night intended to empty me of dreams. The risen sun funnels its golden phantoms into my eyes. I’m meant for sleep, the silent kind. There’s no peace for me upon earth’s surface. Chthonic gnomes might make me welcome. I’ll join them soon. We’ll dine on magma and potatoes. On occasion I may help out in the forge by giving them a drop of blood or two to whet the appetite of some sword newly made or battle ax. We’ll be, like, Neolithic, Baby and you can visit me if you promise to bring the pomegranates for picnics with the seedy demons down the street.