The picture of some darkness has little to do with this post.
"Darkness. Tight, small darkness. In it, and once the eye has adjusted, we can make out a figure. Crouched in the void, waiting. His name is Max. He has no surname. You don't if you're raised by wolves. You don't have a first name either, but that makes it hard to introduce yourself. So Max had crafted a name, using only the dirt and leaves, as nature intended names to be made. The void, all of time and space, all that can be, and will be, and was. All of it. And Max has journey through it, searching. Suddenly, a light. Probing. Scanning across his features like a demented cat. Erratic, jumping, scratching claws of light down his face. Nearby, in the tight confines of the endless void, as if outside, thuds. Footsteps on the endless face of God, resonating through the woody flesh, reaching out..."
I opened the wardrobe door. Max sat excitedly in the middle, a sheet shawled over his head and shoulders, a flashlight shone on his face. He was talking to himself again, muttering about time and space and other blogs. Still, I suppose it'll be good to have him back.
Actually, the novelty's worn off already. Would anyone like to buy him?