And when night comes I’ll go to places fit for woe. – William Blake
Unseeing I went underground, followed the arrow into nightdesert, night-scree, night-burrow. What was it that touched my cheek, a finger, a snout, a wing, some softly breathing memory? What was it that fluttered in my head, what bird perched in my heart pressing it against my ribs? And everywhere eyes that saw where I saw nothing, irises huge and polished as magnifying glasses, the obsidian dots of pupils at the centre pooling the night. Guarded by the sleepy-eyed owl, my sisters civet and lori, I grew incisors and talons, my eyes were hooded, I was guided by scent, my voice broke, I lived in league with the aardvark.