She whispers to the dark, the citadel of blackness building up before her like an altar to her loneliness. No one hears her, her voice echoes in the Ether. But “they” listen; she feels it, the stirring pitch black night growing darker with every whisper. But they listen, the moon and the stars, distant and cold, but they listen even now, even now the darkness knocks at her door, her constant companion, and listens in comforting silence…
She is his fair companion, his pale priestess, the only one who turns to him and feels his presence, his existence. Her tears sparkle like pearls when he shrouds her, painting the fantasy with the attraction of polarities. He is the cold and he surrounds her, feeling her warmth and gently touching that glimmering pale skin, caressing those scars he cannot feel and the colors he cannot give or have.

And I? I am the caged captor, the silence that accompanies the dark in his morbid reign. I am the hush, the ominous stillness, the quiet, the eerie aura, the trickster, the inducer of nighttime maladies. I am everything that keeps the dawn away, while he listens and she sings and the fire at the altar of loneliness is extinguished as the darkness and his pale companion unite…