Night

The sky-- black treacle trapped in tar pits dripping from a mastiff's jowls, or one thousand million foolish houseflies drowning in a single paper trap, maybe a sprawling anti-Elysia, the hunting ground for our shadows to roam while we sleep. A well built by some sweaty, laboring God that we merely see the bottom of. But what matters of its dark? A sky stretches out untouchable and cares not what lies beneath.