Twilight . . .
. . . and the last rays of crimson dissolve into a swelling pool of India ink. As the moon creeps over sequined tree tops spilling its ether on the monochrome landscape, a shadowy figure materializes from the nothingness beyond physical vision.
Intent upon his purpose, he steps into the moonlight, arms extended upward. For an instant the long cape opens as the body stiffens toward the heavens. Then, slowly reclining, knees bent imperceptibly, he glides forward -- slowly at first, cape furling in the rushing air.
It is the Shadow Walker. Gliding house to house and glen to glen he touches sleeping bodies, and bodies with eyes staring gauntly into the blackness of the hour -- stealing consciousness and unconsciousness alike, replacing rationality with mindless dogma, brilliant masterstroke, dark recollections of images which never were...exchanging, shaping, twisting...
He knows the heart and soul of every mortal: young and old, human and beast. Reaching into innermost labyrinths of mind and body, he sees all, knows all, exposing fears and darkest secrets, love and hate, private treasures and excess baggage.
Omnipotent and ever-present, neither victim nor beneficiary can escape his touch. . .
Now I lay me down to sleep;
1 Adapted from the nursery rhyme and the poem by Robert Frost: Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
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