There are those who relish the light, who bask in its glory like worshipers of old; I am not one of them. The light is not my friend, it is my enemy. And no matter how many times I tell the servants to turn off the damn lights, they always turn them on again.

It has been this way for over a millennium. In the old days, there was only fire, and everyone slept once the sun went down. Everyone but me. Then there were torches in the streets, lighting the way through the darkness, and I learned to keep to the shadows. And now, now there is the ever present electric light that leaves no shadow unhaunted. Now I must skitter from one shadow to the next, and pray for a summer storm.

I can feel the clouds begin to coalesce above me. I can feel the mounting pressure, the building moisture in the air. I can feel the dry heat begin to crackle. And then the glorious sounds of thunder and rain.

The lightning strikes and the hum of electricity is silenced. I rejoice but only for a moment. I know that time is short.