It once was said, that some things change overnight. How ironic. Things change in the span of one day's shadow, yes, but how greatly can they change?
Yes, of course, a great change can and usually does start with the smallest of playthings; a candle flickers before a house is set afire, or a teardrop falls before its bearer decides what must be done. but aside usually it only the first domino that falls one night. So, how have we changed in the year that Lacunae has gone barren from us?
I remember being afraid then. I remember being lost and alone then. And I remember a story that lived, of razor-draw-mouthed rabbits, of dark moons and blood-red stars, of the eyeless and the souless combined, of scared poets and brazen lovers, of death and of finding hope in the darkest of deaths.
Why is it gone? I pose the question to everyone. Why? To those who once walked the black streets of Melbourne, wondering what came behind the next corner and what this twisted, writhing wonderland would throw light upon next. To those who once speculated on the fate of these inexistent forms, brought to life through every viewing. But especially to you, Silverblue.
Sapphire's dancing azure shines across the black of this space to a fading, misty Silverblue.
Please. There are many people who would welcome, celebrate, rejoice in your return. When you left us, the thumb on the button, this ultimate piece of stone cold inaction mixed almost violently with leaving us at the cusp of action, so close that dreams flail as to what comes next; a fire we dream of so hard we feel heat, an explosion we see so well it slows down.
When you left us, it was almost a promise; no goodbyes. Sort of a 'see you later.' With a later never to come. So I call you out; cull you from the herd and demand of you one of two options. You have to, through the nature of your work and the nature of who you are, continue with this world and let them again live, or explain to us you meant goodbye.
In advance, if you say goodbye to us,
We'll miss you.