the pale phantom sat in the dark room with nothing but a desk just as dark, impossible to see in the abyss, & a paper & pen, both as blaring white as the specter. in its bony fingers rigormortis stiff it held the pen before the paper, but did not move. its black holes for eyes penetrated the rectangular white void that was the paper, but also did not move.
the only movement in this room were the black arms on the only other white face in that room — the face o’ a clock. its li’l arms ratcheted & ratcheted, each accompanied by a mousy tick. & yet with each greeting, the pale phantom responded with nothing but silence, as if ’tweren’t there @ all.
while the pale phantom sat frozen, the clock had o’er years & years slowly but incrementally left it ’hind. like the moon, with each tick it pulled further back into the void, causing it to shrink… till eventually, ’twould shrink to nothing, leaving the pale phantom to be devoured by the darkness.