Sablewest

Orange glow danced about the silent wrinkles, and lapped up the usual peach colour that sat upon a canvas that was once beautiful and magnificent in many ways. The dark crept steadily up from the cracks and gradually overcome the many crevices, faster and faster. A tide lapped upon a shore, only this shore was not made of sand, but rather many different moving things - alive things. Things that got cold when the light faded, when the wonderful warmth had gone. It was as if someone was pouring india ink over blotting paper, only this was not ink, this was the cold. The cold that could silence even the loudest of sounds, blind even the best-sig