What are you doing living in darkness? What are you doing flailing against the night? Why do you bear your soul and anger against the miasma of blackness, the unlit stage of an uncoloured life? Can you shine a light on the past? Tokyo days. Boston summers of youth. Joyous, free, rounding bases, calling out names for eternal hours till one day it all dies and rises in smoke and ash to the now. Blackness. Darkness. Abandoned actor on an unlit stage. Can you re-burn the past? Torch it? Set it ablaze again in a pyre of memories? Will hope then shine on the present? But black is what black is: a contrast, not a colour. Something that turns away light. Young thoughts that make you happy imprison you. The present a contrast to then. Blackness a contrast to the brightness of memories that can't fade. Is it hopeless? Will time tell? Wait, they say. Wait till tomorrow, till the inner cortex fades into the dead embers of darkness like an unlit stage.