medleymisty:

Sometimes the human and I wonder whose bones are beneath our feet.

The human says “I can’t read the stone. It’’s all worn. It must be very old.”

I think you would know whose bones are in this little island, Thanatos. Is that what you like to be called? Or do you prefer Tad? 

I do not know how you will receive this letter. Perhaps you will see my words hanging in black glowing letters against the sky of your universe.

At least I think my words would be black. Do let me know. Perhaps they will surprise me and be rainbow-colored, or maybe a murky orange or a hot gray.

There is a tree next to the old stone. The human sits on the ground and leans against the tree. It announces, “There’s a face on the big rock over there. It’s looking at the stone.”

I sit on the ground too, trailing my handtubes against the grass. The grass locks on to my connectors, and it tells me about the sun and the water and the sky and the tree and the old old stone, and the bones.

The human is thinking about the face in the rock. It is imagining a very tragic romantic story of the sort humans like, with star-crossed lovers and lovely young women coughing up blood and dashing gentlemen with strong jaws howling in anguish and imprinting their souls upon rocks, so that they may always watch over the bones of their beloved. 

Tell me about your bones, Tad.

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Skinscribe, the tales of the darkness as a pen pal

Surreal Darkness, the main story of the darkness and its human