Wither, Perish

The night is the blackest and the coldest I've known. The town, so small it should not be called a town, is still with its own malice. I have grown weary of the city but still, it is too still. There is no moon and there are no stars and there are no clouds to hide them from my sight. Only unexplained dark. The spine of the town is a dirt road that I cannot see. Just as well. Pestilence has touched the land. It drives the people to rebellion or terror, or cleverly reasoned apathy. The townsfolk do not regard me, nor should they; they are depraved and I am deranged and between us we'd only kick up a murderous fuss. No streetlight shines and no window glows, here the people are best left undisturbed. How did I come to be here ? No matter. Here I am. In the still and in the dark and in the otherworldly cold I hear my bones rattling, nearly, though not quite, so nearly pleased to be alone. 16th July 2020