The boy in the labyrinth is listening to his will. Though it lives in a hollow, it throbs in sync with the ocean tide. It frets and frets, having reason to dream the negative. Rain spurs the wreck of itself—the small droplets seep through the mantel of the earth’s core. The boy in the labyrinth touches the sides of the cavern. His fingers dazzle in the torchlight. The damp gleam loves the boy by accident. Such is the way of the labyrinth—accidents turn in their ambiguous places. They love and love. Their tenderness as frail as the mist’s ghostly form auroral against the physics of the dark.
