In the hollows between the hills night has already laid down his head. In the wash of his sleeping breath, beneath the sighing trees, among the leaf-litter and the rich loamy soil, I lie also. Once I was multitude, just like you. Now you might think I am no more, but there is still life here, but crawling, seeking, feeding. Returning me to the soil, and to the trees’ thirsty roots, and to the hollow between the hills, where night has laid down his head, where the moon shines white on my white face, my eternal smile. Here I sleep.
Mason Hawthorne studied creative writing at the University of Wollongong, and writes queer weird fiction and horror. On twitter @MasonHawth0rne