Of Beren and Lúthien, definitely, for sure, for now. Not of Sarah and Phoenix though, not yet anyway, hold the line anyhow. Sylvia Plath. Long, dark, Longer Halloween unfurling all at once and wrapping itself around us like a worn-out but warm overcoat, round and round going around us like an entity on its own, encircling around them, encompassing, engulfing us in its cloth of starry black blackness. Still, it is still better than the entity nestling at the edge of that night, an entity of its own, in the corner of the black hole, stranded and all alone, but still demanding the nothingness around it to worship it, a beginning, nascent, an understanding of love; an origin of horror, true evil, deluded love but selfless, making us all further more lost, lost and delirious, quite. The gall of that Thing is so much more appalling and ludicrous than the notion, the very idea of being here, stranded on this rock, a brittle pall of smoke is the drollest joke. All alone and by its lovelorn, lonesome, self-loathing self, melded by thoughts, surrounded by all this emptiness and still asking the remaining nothingness to lie in prostration, to lie, prostate it. An utterly ridiculous litany, so stupid, so much more than her. Her and the Lemons She ate. Though she was used to drinking in the moonlight while protesting it tasted like my name. The audacity of demanding such a thing, urging a fealty to the dying stars, when there is only you, where there is only you. Solitary and in solitude, despite the designs still choosing to be alone by design, opting for that wet darkness, deciding to remain there in a liquefying darkness liquefying in darkness. In spite of having an option of twisting your own faith in a fickle twist of fate. And what of the whimsical, you say. What of them? Those earthen soldiers of dirt and dust, of earth and of clay, staying not there, straying not far from here. Distanced by time and twisted by history, those distorted monsters, time and history and a bit of salt of memory had turned them into heroes, time and history made them that, what they were not, heroes that is. They weren't heroes. They were savages. They are still savages. A little human savagery. All of us are not there, we are all inherently savage and yet we blame what is not there. Rightfully so. Why hold that false light responsible, what kind of fakery is that, why hold the ranks. Speaking of those fallen heroes, it's just as well, for the defeat of heroes is the only thing her palate can handle these days, the humiliations of the unneeded are the only palatable viands to eat around here, which is nowhere. Why you need to know the savagery behind her savage smile, the reason of it, the reason for it, why must you need to know that, though this is the season for it. It is Saturday, so she can easily fly the black sails, prettily so and she can fix the midnight. But though she can fly the black sails and fix the silence of the midnight, she is gone savage. What a savage song she has become, she is a girl gone savage. Why must you master her smile, when you already know her name. What's in a name, everything. Why you want to do that, why you need to do that, is beyond me. This is not what I want. It's beyond all the desires I have, all the desires I have had. For her. And her name? Where is it. What's in her name, her name? It's all in the rain.

I don't need October for it to be October. Despite being a chiaroscurist instigator, I remain a recruiter of shadows.