What is it that hides in the hidden corners of my house? Where the tendrils of my ivy plant sends down its exploratory fronds, there lie secrets covered by foliage, that today is lit green by the last of the evening sun.
As I lie reclining on the couch, I become aware of the structure of shadows in my room, and I see subliminal movements in my periphery. I imagine huge shadow spiders, their shapes projected onto the dusty walls, flitting furtively from place to place.
In another corner down by the leaking radiator I imagine that I see a pair of eyes blink, and then blink again. Something shuffles, something shifts, and as I recline on the edge of sleep, subtle waves of movement run along the line where the ceiling meets the wall. A tenuous migration of energy, barely hidden above visibility from corner to corner, where the unknown places its footsteps—creatures all around me, formed of shadows and of silence. Now I am asleep and the house can work its secrets unobserved.
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