The Colleens, a band of street girls, cruise their shadows again along the windowsills, discriminately in the nightshade alone: they peek in. The Colleens, though? You won’t see them back. They deviate from any usable light. Their straight golden hair, stretched artfully over one eye, is like an invisibility cloak. A band of pretty girls, unnaturally menacing, becomes unnoticeable. Their fingers spin at their waists like Turing machines. The equation is never solved; the digital dervishes gain speed.
Piloting these Colleens is a gentle North Light, dispatching them like the couriers of some repeatable secret message. Again and again, they meet the approach of the night, but never recognize the falling of the watery darkness as a stop sign. The calm and legible way the Colleens ride their feet through the evening present them with the immense time hidden in sleep. Good hour after hour take them on mental journeys. Every bit of their interiors has been raided, and so they wander like the Burghers of Calais, willing yet not wanting to give themselves for the good of the people. The Colleens want, without pursuing their desire, to wear the hats of others, but proceed, not able to recognize anything beyond the pattern of steps they take.
The Colleens shepherd the night into each small town, and when it is safe, when a sufficient amount of time has passed, the light will brutalize familiar streets again.