Sun-weary painter done bleed 'is las' paint, Pour purple an' rose-gold pon Attic sky.Twilight seep deep, cool an' sweet like a saint,Dem ol' window bones drink light, never dry.Inside dat hollow temple, stone gone cold,Sunset catch fire where no glass...

The air was not merely cold; it was saturated, a sodden, suffocating weight pressed down by the starless night. It hung thick with the scent of damp earth and decay—not the wholesome, fungal rot of a forest floor, but...

Mais, dat sun, he ain't even thinkin' 'bout risin' good yet. Just dat grey light, sticky sweet like swamp fog, thick in de air. Me, I'm standin' dere, where de dew kissin' de ground cold, My boots sinkin' just...