Customary Graffiti

A little girl in pajamas closed her eyes just as Night was shaking his can of paint. He sprayed his initials on everything so densely you couldn’t read them anymore. The little girl’s face was soon covered. She was dreaming of an army of woolen facemasks marching over her tongue. She was dreaming of drinking from a glass of water too heavy to lift. The kind Night would dip his sore thumb in to wash off the paint. If he could find the light switch to see.