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Until dawn

February 20, 2009

There is nothing wrong with black night, she said. Nothing wrong with the way it wraps like silk, nothing wrong with its soft shadows.

He swallowed some of the air and pondered this. He reached a hand out into the ink. He swirled the hand about until she caught hold of it.

Why reach out into it, she said, when you can just be here with me, as if we were invisible to the rest of them?

He let his arm fall. That was enough of an answer until dawn.

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