Whitman's slow-moving and black lines creep endlessly through my body. I feel them tickling my skeleton. Because that's all there is between my bones and skin, just these moving lines, moving, moving. Except they're not black right now. They might be a dark purple, like midnight. Midnight moves over my bones, and now it feels softer and doesn't tickle so much. It feels like clouds moving in front of the moon somewhere deep in there. I look down at the bare skin of my chest and see the glow fade and become brighter as midnight is moving.