There's that moment midwinter when you actually don't want the days to get longer again. You begin to crave that full Icelandic never-day. Weeks of it. Months of it. There's a temptation that we can materialize into the shadows forever. It becomes the day that dredges, illuminates what the night couldn't full metabolize. Beneath the crisp winter sun our formlessness emerges, clammy and undernourished, mumbling mouthfuls of abyssal dreamspeak. As if we haven't brushed against a person that wasn't incestual kin in uncountable days. Beveled teeth see-through, hair gnarled skull flat like a neglected infant. Swathed in oiled canvas hooded capes, skulking like orcs by the horizon skating sun. Take us in Night One, deity of the forever pitch. Enshroud us in your starless cloak so we might never skulk among faded hope.