With head heavy, eyelids heavier, hand tightly gripping the handle of a pint mug of tea, by now half empty and barely warmer than its surroundings, I sit quietly in a daze, resisting with all my strength the urge to doze off, listening intently to the silence of the room around me, and the whispers in my mind.
“If off to sleep you go,” say the hissing voices in the deep of the darkness, “then Day ends. And then YOU,” they add with creepy emphasis, and the implied wagging of a multitude of invisible but menacing, clawed and scaly index fingers, “and then YOU will have KILLED it!”
And that thought, that awful, nagging thought that I might thus become The Murderer of Day keeps me awake at night, if only just, until Morning comes sneaking up on me to ensure with brutal certainty that there is no way back, and that Day must finally give up what’s left of its spark and die. But then at least I know that it is no