Everyone possesses a dark forest. It is, whether geographically or metaphysically, where you are terrified to wander at night, alone. It is the weathervane and divining rod of primal fear. There is an ancient nameless fear that makes your existence tremble. The trembling is inescapable. As is the frigid hollow in the pit of your being. It’s not what you’ll find or what will find you in the dark forest, it’s what you imagine: the endlessness to the woods, the cannibal hag in the cottage, the headless apparitions, ill-tempered demons, the bottomless bog. Too many prospects and none of them light. Not in a dark forest. Not when your mind is populated by an All Hallow’s gallery of what-ifs, and you find that the child that you were, and have always been, fevers desperately to invent a bed under which to hide in plain sight.