Welcome, sleeping wanderer, to the peculiar seasons of the liminal spaces.

Here you’ll find the things that fall between the cracks; too small to see, too obscure to measure.

Join me in eventide when the walls shrink and the shadows grow, and the clock by the bed speaks of the march of death; when the soughing wind in the eaves beckons you to prayer; when the frowning windows and moue of the door call.