Pretty Dark

It was dark.

It was the darkest dark in the whole history of dark. It was the dark of a lunar eclipse during a volcanic eruption. It was the dark of a jet pillar erected in a cave. It was the dark of a black dwarf, its sunlight long since extinguished. It was the sort of dark that a sea-worm might see, perched upon the chimney of a black smoker.

It wasn’t so dark that all those mangled metaphors were necessary.

Besides, there was a crimson glow coming from the corner of his room. It read “E1:h,” or, once he had righted himself, “4:13.” But it was pretty dark, and he knew he had forgotten something. Something so unimportant that its absence would barely be noticed.

Oh. The trash was still out. It was definitely still dark enough for raccoons, so he slipped on a crumpled pair of pants and began his trip down the hall.

In the dark.

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