In the light of all substantial horror, it fades. But in the darkness after the light, fear resurfaces. We stand at terror, a horrid beast it is, to hold a sword of Hope and a sheild of people. But from the deepest caves, the most deserted houses, the most deadly woods. From the times and their hidden memories, from the darkest of dim lights, monsters, of all things, are irrelevant. These are more. Worse.
Sometimes the things in the closet imaginary. It only takes imagination to birth them. Sometimes the thing under your bed takes shear understatement to the term monster. Some call them nightmares. Others call them demons or devil's, poltregeists or spirits. I call them moths.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. One leading to nonexistence. These moths are the only things willing to go to the light. These are the stories of the moths, and their desperation to end themselves.
And others.
