“Cigarette smoke filters through the thick curls that frame her face, winding along the chain of the antique ceiling light and into the tar-soaked ceiling panels. I watch her deep black eyes blaze with a restless thirst for life, forcing me to look down through her silky nightgown to the ashtray on the table. I taste the pickled vegetables brought to me and realize that childhood has finally removed its talcum-scented little fingers from me.”

Until I have looked and listened to the darkness enough, they just are – without words, sound or form – beings.