ubiquitous specter offering one of the seven on a silver question, fingers posed and frightening in a sanguine mixture. it was a licentious grotesque with the face of seraphim and the intent of a witch cloaked in justice. i walk closer and i say "what am i to do?". i say it out loud austere and collected, tacitly transposing an anchor on the cross, as if to elicit concurrence from the shaky sound waves reverberating off the still damp space. the dark space grows. "damn the light", i say. "it is always casting shadows." an obvious remark.