Myself?

I have never been worried about darkness. The dark is the refuge of the hideous, of ghouls ashamed of their very being, hoping never to be seen. I know, of course, that there are horrors beyond any sort of rational or conscious comprehension, hidden in the deep dark, but the very fact that they are so unfathomably horrible gives the contemplative type leave to a reasonable amount of apathy, or even equanimity. That which is horrifying beyond reason is unconcerned with us: the eating and shitting, stinking and speaking, drooling bags of mitosis—mindless mitosis, steadily failing, on and on, until the end—bacteria, phages and decay.

The light?

Well, yes, it does reveal—but in every revealing, there is a necessary concealing. Not simply because, for every apparent front, there is a hidden back, but because that front is, precisely, apparent. Most assume the world and the things that wriggle and convulse within are more or less as they appear. They assume so, of course, because they themselves wriggle and convulse.

Haven’t you ever wondered who exactly it is hiding behind the light?