The almost-forgotten shadow-soul stalks the city’s streets at night. It moves between the flickering yellow lights lit in the streets to keep it away. It lingers in the dark tendrils of midnight, in the creak of floorboards and roofs cooling after a day under a burning sun. It whispers in the scratch of a branch against a window, in the sudden silence after a scream rips through the night.
It hunts and haunts the dreams of the city dwellers. It craves not their ambition, nor their wealth. It craves the simple dreams of the city-trapped for open fields, mountains, and clean air. It hunts and catches dreams of this place as it was before the buildings and the industry came. It hunts for its own memories and past hidden beneath layers of paving, brick, and snippets of fading greenery. It searches only for itself, hunts only for itself, feeds only itself, remembers only itself, and weeps only for itself.
Hersenskim 
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