I don't know if it's the chintzy curtains, or the virga dripping from that damp skylight, or the fact that your arm's just been lopped off, or what exactly it is; but my friend, something is making your face abnormally pale and etiolated this evening: you look like a nyctophobic vampire with a Vitamin D deficiency, for crying out loud.

His ivory skin was still etiolate from living behind the chintzy velvet drapes surrounding his coffin, and he arose like virga to greet every twilight, but nyctophobia was not a proper state of being for a true lord of the night, and he shrank back as the world grew darker, trapped by his fear.

Unnatural -- like a virga in a thunderstorm or a hurricane evaporating on the spot -- that's what darkness is; after its daily ritual of murdering and hiding away the sun, it seeps through my flimsy, chintzy curtains to come awaken my dreaded nyctophobia, to come etiolate my once-vibrant sanity, to come murder me, its next victim -- a victim of sleep.

At first, we were in a dark lounge and she was to me enchantingly beautiful and stylish, but when later the lights came on and I saw that her face was etiolated and her clothes chintzy, my enthusiasm evaporated and fell to earth like so much virga and I secretly prayed to be again in darkness with her despite my perennial nyctophobia.