Aye, it was a dark stormy night. The small town of Waldwick all but prey. The small houses, shaking and creaking from subtle winds approaching, feeling, feeding. The skies were black and wrought with doubt. Looms of dark clouds spilled over like fountains of clumped thread. Heavy. Trapping all bits of confidence, bundling hope into small tombs, into dark lonely places, lost and aimless. No key in sight. Something, somethings lurked beyond the mountains of black. Emanate.