It is beauty, the absence of light, absorbing all around it, a color without hue, some say it represents darkness, but I do not. We bend our heads to its solemnity and authority; the color of mourning. It portends death, evil, witches and magic, secrets, violence, the end of things; to burn. Dull and flat, saturated with brilliance. My Neanderthal painted it on the cave at Lascaux; how could it be wrong. Perfect in its elegance, the dress of queens, poets, the bear, and widow spider, the panther and crow. Such beauty in the vantablack, the darkest thing, and the grace of the blackest hole. I should like to wear the mask of my Lone Ranger, black and secret in its goodness.

Have you been kind to someone today, yet?

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