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Just in time for the season -- a short dark tale for your eyes. The title is tentative unless I can't think of anything better -- it was written on a long night in which I couldn't sleep. The Shadows Imprint The Shadow's hands inoculate -- heroin-chic, pale and grim; down the Styx, replicating waves. They guide my Abydos toward Infinitum Abyssos. Were it alive -- where would this nebuli end? Alas, the sailor suffering, maiming, souffleing ever consuming it's shadows scent, is still -- icicles blot it's blood streams, puff it's eyes and paint their edges an opaque midnight; make it's bones fragile and exposed. The Shadow's aura of ebb and flow crush and grind fragility to bonemeal and rust -- if it could conjugate it's past, cigarette burns would appear upon the Shadow's veil: A mothers hand, prescribed suicide. A sisters forearm, track marks cross an alleyway, salivary marks cross her cheeks and off her lips hued a deep purple and chapped. A john doe father who's mind's light on gravestones' weight. The Shadow's eldritch wind would no longer tunnel and press toward an unknown delta whispering "all souls exit here, but only leave whence thy body disappears" by Jeremy Swyck 10/26/13