He was a Jack-in-the-box. Sunset up, sunrise down. And repeat, forever and forever.
He was a thing in a box in a cold deep cellar. He was a container for red wines. There was no label on him, but there were little drops of red liquor upon his sleeping lips.
He was the contents of a mahogany box, in a cellar of webs and upside-down things hooked to the ceilings. He lived in a land of dripping midnight waters and soft grey web.
He was a white hand, a rouged mouth, a glass eye, a set of white teeth and a cold heart. He was a pedestrian who walked the nights. He was a sleeper with original ideas as to hours.
He was a leaf, a pelt, a flame, a wing. He was Nosfearatu, dead these hundred of years.