I feel it's stirring, even if I don't know what it is, a change of air, an accurate scent, a low moan, groaning in the dark, aberration expected, the way the Jews expected, and so spread Lamb's blood over their doors, to keep that dark angel from entering, this thing I can't even describe, hovering over the landscape I travel over, an unnamed Omen that has nothing directly to do with me, it affects me, the expectation of some loss I can't get my head around, most acutely felt when I see her pass, or hear her hollow laugh upstairs or down, as if whatever it is I feel, clings to her heels wherever she goes, she did not invite it, I think, it is like a shadow that attaches to her, wanted or not, barely dispelled at noon or in the darkest hours after midnight, a Cinderella notion that makes me think, if I blink, her carriage will turn to a pumpkin, her steeds to mice and she back to that rag doll she always was as a kid
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