The blackened seaweed has entered the room, the conversation, the interjections and pauses. Refusing to sit, refusing to say why it died its macabre death in this room and not in any other. There are other rooms lamenting your absence, not mine which is done done with blackness with the hint of the dreary, the dark, the gray as much as the black. Seek then the heartchamber that is not mindful of gray not mindful of the ray of black that sneaks out from the sun, guilty almost of subver ting day as well as its connotation, and corroding it too. Must the corrosion wail its unseemliness along with the sorry, unreputed state of its wantonness, its gray, its soot oozing subversive black off radiance, robbing daylight in daylight?