Don't be afraid. The dark is a nothing, a space waiting to be filled. Colour it with your somethings, smear it red and bright. Paint in your scarecrows, the crucifix and the faith. Olden day dark silences were punctured by strange creaks, a foreign language to me then. No amount of deciphering, unpuzzling, formed a picture from that soundscape mysterium. Toes curling in the rough shag, fingers senseless in the cold, waiting, gritting, not long now. The unfamiliar soundscapes from other floors unleashed different visions. Imagined demons overwhelming reason and physics, a fantasyland of homicide and catastrophe. Tonight, there's a blue echo of TV spilling into the dark. Some sports drama being scalpeled and retold. Instinct reactions slowmowed and pretend-explained. Victory found, revenge avenged. You're living their drama, giving everything to the moment, unconscious and complete. The ball rolls, tomorrow calls, let's bounce, you say.