My candle's burning low, but at last the website update is complete.
(Check out our new artist pages at www.thisplagueofdreaming.net.)
It's late, and the tech staff have long since retired to their dormitories, leaving me to finish the update alone, after hours. From my window in the PlagueDream Media Center I can see across the moonlit compound to the bunkhouse, where blue TV flickers light up The Threshold People's window. I Bury the Living? The Killer Shrews? They're probably asleep in front of it by now, the movie rewinding and repeating endlessly on their hulking old VCR and influencing their dreams.
The shades are down on the secretive To Repel Ghosts, but every now and again they light up with a bright spray of sparks, and I can hear the ancient oscillators warble and howl. (TRG find the privacy of their room more conducive to their arcane pursuits than the main laboratory, and they keep ungodly hours.)
Somewhere out there, perhaps, Sypha Nadon gazes with intricate apprehension at this same gibbous moon. His relentless and harrowing explorations, though of vital importance to us all, offer him little comfort in the small hours of the night. For some, sleep is not a refuge.
My work for the night is done, and my candle gutters in its own wax. I am about ready to expire, myself, so I'm off to my bunk.
Dream well, plaguedreamers, and don't get caught.