Tarred and flattened

and more than that, the cows weren't even black to start.  But when the night lasts so long, drags on, skips days, when thought's failed capture makes black objects out of its own darkness rather than face the terror (i.e. creeping, anticipating, tingling stench) of of gray (without value, without decision, without effect), when it demands that what is seen is what must be, pitched and tarred lightless by the act of speculation: how do the cows not start to believe?  Creatures of the night?  Very well. Morning has never changed a thing.

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