Nachttocht -
No torch. You let the dark press in — not hostile, just ancient, like the inside of a lung before breath.
You walk for the sake of walking, each step a small refusal of the lit room, the list, the clock. The wind combs the grass into whispers. Your shadow — what shadow? You have loaned it back to the earth. nachttocht
The moon is a sliver of chipped ice, hung low over the heath. Your boots know the way before your eyes do: peat, root, the soft give of sand. No torch
