There's a man who sits behind me, seemingly wherever I go.
His name is Mirkwood.
There is a deep, old darkness about him.
And he's always there.
I made eye contact the very first time I noticed him.
And that let him in.
He sits there, grubby, wanting.
Waiting for something
Or waiting for nothing at all, whichever is worse.
Take this time, for instance.
I went to the library
The bright Northeast wall
Where there are seats every twenty paces at the windows
And when you're sitting, you can't see the seat ahead or behind
Because each window-seat pair is recessed successively.
I walked to the back, hoping to find it vacant
But he was already there, waiting
I sat in the seat in front, out of his view
But not likely, because matter of this plane
Does not affect him the same
He sat and watched my soul and tried to twist it
He may have succeeded, because I could not stop thinking
Could not stop feeling the dark at my back,
Even though the light was everywhere else.
He uttered dark words, ones that could form
Dark devices, dark instruments
Whose deeds were better left unstated
Because most couldn't possibly imagine
What they were capable of.
Mirkwood. I prepared to confront him with light
And save the world. But I turned and he was gone.
I asked others around if they had seen the man.
None of them had. None of them would.
I sit, with him behind me, everywhere I go.
And I am to blame, again, for so much darkness.
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