There were moments in the stillness. Moments when the moon hung high in its cycle that Aban gained a feeling of being. That moment when everything aligned and no longer was he Aban, fettered to the worldly world, but a figure, an entity as chilling and silent as the moon that kept him company. And when his gaze lighted upon you it was as though you had glanced into the sun–blinded by the sheer will to exist. To be.

But the true power came after, when the feeling fell, and what was left was the emptiness, the vastness–the void. The void of potential, the lingering of what could have been, the loneliness in the no longer.

—September 12, The Advisor
From the project, “Le Conseiller”

“Must I constantly be aware that I am a walking corpse bound to experience agony with each night? I do not, no,—cannot—understand myself. When I think back I assume I must have been ghastly to be turned into such a monster. Cannot even the vampires with flesh be allowed some mortal comforts? I, on the other hand, have been cast to the pits of Hell only to trudge through the sludge every night without even one mortal luxury. I get no peace in both mind and body. I am reminded again of my inhuman nature by having to constantly cast away dead skin, and slowly lose what gives man his appearance. Do not think me pitiful, however, because what a wretch I must have been—and still am—to deserve such a fate as mine.”

And what do we say to silence?

That it lives. And it thrives only as the moon touches the tops of trees, and walks amongst the fallen leaves, weaving through the mossy overgrowth upon the backs of trees, nestling amongst the flowing streams.

And what does silence say to us?

That it remembers. That it knows. That it moves.

And it is home.