He loved the darkness. He loved the peace that quieted all of the bustle and hurry of the day. He craved the blissful serenity. He cherished the solitude nestled among the shadows.

He could hide in the night. Twilight masked his flaws and obscured his sins. Darkness was patient and forgiving, cloaked in obsidian grace.

He was an artist after darkness fell. He found his muse as soon as she could emerge without fear of the blinding daylight. Darkness inspired him. In many ways, darkness defined him.

He loved the darkness, and the darkness sheltered him in a velvet embrace.

He despised the darkness. He dreaded the terrible isolation and utter forlorn loneliness. He trembled amid the suffocating silence, yearning for any glimpse of life and companionship deep in the shadows.

The darkness locked him in a glittering onyx cage with no hope of rescue or respite. The ominous shroud blanketed him in a frigid void far from the warm hope of vibrant life.

His soul choked in the sullen gloom. The oppressive heft of the endless, lifeless darkness crushed his spirit.

He hated the darkness, as all flickering hint of hope sputtered and died in the all-consuming, heartless abyss.