As the orchestra exhales its final fuschia note, the ink of night slides silently over hills. Twisting through the vines. Settling into the earth.

The stillness

weighs upon his back, too heavy to carry now. Face into the dirt, the world breaks into riotous silence. He is overwhelmed with loneliness.

A.S. Czuk writes in solitude, in the middle of the night, when sleep’s evasiveness prevails. Writing is personal. Intimate. Private. Exposure is a harsh light that stings the eyes, but A.S. Czuk realizes now that life is much too brief to carry on in the dark.