In the lowness, in the depths, where blind things sleep and limbless forms slink palely through the shallows: this is where the light does not willingly venture. The light is a friend of open spaces, airy places, the tops of things. In plumbous silence, the light is afraid.
Things are clearer in the dark. There is no glare to blind you, no being watched to guide and bind you. In the dark colours are defunct; the myth of beauty is debunked. When water falls it is the rain of lost ages, millennia easing through rock, hard with history and bone.