The boy in the labyrinth knows the possibilities of darkness: either the beast or not the beast. Either motion or stillness. Flowers push their heads through eye sockets. A little breath hushes the velvet black. God’s eyes pierce the gloom. The boy thinks about the minotaur’s music and his own lost ball of string. Whether the nest at the heart of the maze sprouts other beasts. Other boys. Whether the possibilities know they are possibilities, rich and cold. The boy worries the light off his torch. Worries the scorched passageways. He thinks there are eyes that feel him pass. That we know each other through sparks in the dark.