I sew my little dolls while we talk about a myriad of things. As I sew this little doll. She is saying things to me, dark things. Things that can only speak of dark matter in a dark universe. She is whispering in a tiny bird voice. Kill the brick coffin man, but brick coffin man is a farce, all muscle and little brain behind it. What does the dark bird fear? Is it strength without intelligence? Brick coffin man looks askance and wonders what did he ever do to deserve such vitriol. Poor thing.
I seek meaning and here I find it.