The Devil in the Details

"It comes in shapes," someone said - not to me, I hasten to point out, but I was in the vicinity and really, public spaces are not meant for privacy.

I walked the long way home. Thinking. Hands in pockets. Dead leaves everywhere and it's nearly May. May! Three letters of permissiveness and a built in handshake. Nice work if you can get it.

"It comes in shapes," the woman said, and I remember now that it was called "The Witching Hour." No one else does. That's lonely and strange.

> WAIT

You wait...

Time passes.

It's true. I can't seem to stop it.

Eight letter nightmares at three am

So the scariest thing I ever saw on TV - this, by the way, is by way of an exorcism - was something when I was a kid. Not that I mean to suggest to you I've ever been an immature goat, except figuratively (figures), it's just a phrase. Or a phase. Something like that, anyway. You know what I median.

Anyway, yeah. TV. Television. The scariest thing. I don't remember the programme, really, or the context, or even the linear progression of narrative or the intriguing juxtaposition of thematic elements or even - beyond "doodoodledoo-DOO-DO-DO-DOOO" - the sparks and coruscations of the music, incidental, titular or otherwise.

do-do-dooo.

Just an image. Images. Static and snow (imagine travellers on a mountain path, lost in a snowstorm, emerging into a greyscale world of antique broadcasts, meaning subservient AT LAST to image: all our old friends come again, singing the familiar old songs, hands cupped and mouths pursed to catch the old phrases, the old rope).

...

Mmm. Maybe in the morning. You know. When there's not-dark.