The pale moon of a perpetually black sky paints the irises of an insomniac, through the glass of a window. He gazes, silently, entranced... until his concentration is broken by a black figure from below, who has wandered out of the forest, and has now stopped, staring up at the window. He feels a rush of dread from the figure's blank, lifeless stare... the darkness has taken physical form, wrapping around the person's body, and eyes. He stands without a single movement, as the strands of black fabric sway in the wind... the black ink of the puppet's fate is inscribed on the back of his eyes. He stares up, through the window, seeing his end. He has come from a whirling void, where the dead go to vanish forever... and the silence is broken only by the voice of the crows.