When darkness falls like cold rain upon the dead husk we call earth something awakens within a man. Something secret and wild, like a pollen, seasonal, aggravating an allergic reaction, inflaming. Something primal and unresolvable. Something the scientists call melatonin, or circadian rhythms, or something, but I know them to be wrong because the animals will stay even in a lightened night; they will hibernate even on a darkened day.

No, it's something ordained by something beyond the moon and tars, farther even than the darkness that puts the stars in the foreground, the darkness that as far as anyone can know goes on forever, expanding boundlessly, like a mathematical function.

When you look into the darkness behind the stars, what do you see? what are you looking at? is there something at the end of that deepness? is it something that could be illuminated by photons of light but hasn't been because no photons from the sun or any star have ever ventured out so far without decaying into entropic energy?

Maybe that gaping emptiness staring blankly back down is just a giant mirror, reflecting everything I don't know about what lies between back on my face; reminding me how little I am. My face, wimpled by the freckling stars, petite, insignificant even within an iota of the universe. A mirror--what a clever, creative way for God to toy with me. Pretending I'm some naive, self-unaware vermin blinded by the incomprehensibility of duplication.

So perhaps the primality of man comes in the excitement of being parallel to another existence. Metaphysical. Alive, and out of body. We who are thrilled by duality, we anxious and wondering, we aimless and wandering, we live for the night. We live for the moment when darkness falls like cold rain upon the dead husk we call earth.