The Witch
Do not trust the pilgrims. Their plantation defies god’s teachings, we must go at it alone, in the wilderness. Nary ungodly thoughts must be had in our homestead.
But the devil works in mysterious ways, and Satan finds a way in there, thorough my own flesh and blood. Am I the cause of all this, with secrets, impotence towards providing for my family, pride of having my principles shattered in the town?
Maybe it’s my meek wife, unable to let go of our snatched toddler, moping for ever and ever.
Or perchance my older daughter, my filial successor, but credibly accused of witchcraft and devil worship.
No matter. When I come upon the truth, I was already dead, visited upon me by the physical manifestation of Mephistopheles on this Earth. The rest of the family is also deceased, except for my daughter, broken beyond redemption and joining a witches’ covenant (Burning Man meets Wicca).
There are no lights on this house.
This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.