Spooky, who has not only stole my noodle but taken it off to the park, where he's apparently gotten lost, forwards us this from the afterimage:

It whispered words of darkness,
and told me of my fate,
It spake of loss and solitude,
the weight of guilt so great.

It pictured things of terror,
and illustrated pain,
and painted crimson silhouettes,
all silent as the slain.

It sang of deathly murmers,
that wailed upon the winds,
and I, at once was petrified,
and couldn't finish my taco.

W. Sheath-handstanding,
Balbamore Grottage,
Finbashock.