It had been a revelation. Death. Every night was death. The fall of that blazing gaseous mass from its throne in the sky was a revolution, the triumph of dark over light, evil over good. All that could be seen during the day died with night, it had no substance, no value, no worth.

The occurance of said revelation was several days since. Now the date and time seemed unimportant, simply that it had been discovered. The true path was to become a creature of the night.

The wake cycle was now initiated just before the fall of the sun, the wretched bastard king of the hours that only the benighted abided by. A climb to the roof was of the utmost, in order to have a superior vantage point from which to witness the triumph of the darkness and to silently worship its ascension.

If fortune lingered on her behalf, the rough tiling would be slicked over with a sheen of smooth ice. The treacherous tread with bared feet made the journey to pay hommage to her deity one of risk, a potential human sacrifice at every step. Life was an ephemeral experiment with sensation. Death was the permanant status of things. Why not take advantage of the phase of trials?

Elation lifted her as the fireball was knocked from the sky and darkness enshrouded all that one could see. Then it was peace which settled over her emotions for the duration of the nocturnal empire.

Then she would descend into the apartment realm to wait out the new serenity she had found. No electric illume nor synthetic heat were permitted power. The reign of darkness requiered the highest level of purity for which she strived to maintain, as her peaceousness was entirely dependant upon the purity and graceousness of the endarkened heavens. It couldn't last however, this peaceful serenity which took possession of her corpse at the defeat of each day. Nothing is meant to last.

When the night was near past, she would sit by the window in the freezing air, her breath creating an almost-transparent sheen of frost over the glassine panes through which to witness the temporary fall of that which had become her pantheon. Could the pain of watching the fall to the mundane reign of the masses be worse if someone were to flay her body and rip out the innards while she still managed to draw breath? Saline droplets passed from her eyes and froze upon pallid cheeks as a quintet of digits pressed to the chilled viewing space which caused her so much pain. If only time could be frozen to a standstill..

And so formed the rituals of her days.