What the truth is remains unknown in this crowd of facts, as they cast their tumultuous shadows on the walls of time and its flamboyant cousin, history. Since facts are what constitute reality, and used in judgement, the truth remains unknown and colourless. Just as the murderer was a Muslim fanatic and the truth is that he was human too. Their shadows were cast by the same luminosity, but for one of them, it was by a brightness travelling through the light years of history from a long dead Arabian night. So, in the beginning there must have been darkness.
Darkness is what covers everything like a cloak, and outlasts light.
Light dies at some time, when the wick burns out, or the oil runs out, or the lamp cracks. Or at least, this is what a widow would be thinking. Of the futility of lighting the lamp. Or the nest of all nightmares. He is also the author of Scream of the Dragonflies , a collection of short stories.