it drifts in like the dark clouds i never talk about. the subject of all my note-book margin doodles. black scrawls blossoming knives. i might as well slam my head against the beams of the ceiling as talk about angels. pen marks inked deep into the fleshy pulp of the paper, etched with jagged, toothy swords. a-mazed, they say the last son is; ever since the ice swallowed the city of magog. that hive they built upon the bones of the dragons, that honey-combed black slab. o monolith-city! while the sun was yet young, the stars shone true; though now polaris has risen, draconis & vega having long since set. & so here my lonely star! bear upon you my black mark, my bleak glyph. take it to the lips of my father & tell him i will be his ruin. beware his dogs! though i still fear them, i will not blench from them.