hat becomes of the soul left in darkness? Does it wither to a shade, a delirious, wasted spirit joined to a forever midnight, like a spirit of the dead joined to an old ash tree?

What will become of me?

My rat friend has dropped his playing. He no longer nips at my feet. Instead, he bites at places less easy to defend. The backs of my legs. The meaty part of my arm, just below the shoulder. I hope to dissuade him with half of my meal, which will come soon. It is only coarse and smelly bread, anyway.

When I do find rest, it is in a fitful half-sleep. My dreams are vivid and often unpleasant. Shortly after my imprisonment, I began to feel a presence as I slumbered, but now I know that it is more than just a dream-thing. It is as if a deeper dark stands over me, like a shadow cast upward from some lowly sun. It’s not something I can see, for I can see nothing. But it’s there.