the shadow of things to come

The night was alive, the shadows darted back and forth along the walls as he sat and wrote, trying to capture his feelings with mere words so his love would see why he sought her so.  By the dim light of his candle the shapes on his walls wiggled and shivered, crafting the form of people, not just a few, but a crowd, a surprisingly large crowd.  He ignored them, but they didn’t seem to ignore him, it was as if a real crowd were watching him admiring as he poured his hart onto the page.  Just as he finished his labour of love he finally took notice of the shaded regions of his room, distraught by the imagery he blew out the light, and that was the last of him.  His note delivered by his scarred form lead most to assume it a bizarre suicide over some girl who would pay him no mind, but the girl herself knew it wasn’t the case, mostly because she attempted to flirt earlier that day, the only others to know, were the shadows, who were full now, but still keeping an eye out, knowing they would soon need to hunt again.


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