I’ve missed him, because no one else shared my love of darkness; its many beautiful shadows cast against the mundane - nothing without the light behind. He showed me his paintings, a scene from our favourite movie. Then we returned to the wine, and the talk of cheap human things, only occasionally stealing looks from each other to reaffirm our friendship and our difference. That night I dreamt of a demon before an innocent, the former shrouded in golden light. The innocent thought the demon was an angel. “Behind the light, darkness,” the innocent said. And the innocent was right.