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Slowly the slick darkness develops a texture, like fabric, like gauze. This isn't water teeming with large creatures. It's not fish scales flashing from the depths of any sea. The inky curtain seems to...to...tear apart like...like tissue paper. But that's not tissue, or paper, its feathers. Blurs become individual strands and fibres. Aporia finds form and shape. Jagged teeth emerge, become the trembling tips of plumes, the pulsating ends of a tail, the slick edges of wings. A balmy breeze eddies up the limestone cliffs of the Algarve. A soft, ambiguous light plays on the feathers. Sunless clouds puff in a predawn sky, the cumulous vague and stained blue by distance and blue air. The raven's eye catches a sharp white splinter. The diamond sparkles inside its black eye like a tiny ballerina twirling alone across a dark stage. The penetrating manmade light sparks through the gloom, turns, beams, and is gone. Each time it swings back the artificial light plays across the black feathers. Then swoops away again