Furred, but not furry. Mare is the colour of shade. Dark, not as a descriptive - but as an active occurrence; the creeping embodiment of anti-light. A vacuum of discernible topography.
And what a contradiction, because his disposition is pure levity.
Crawling the length of your body to perch on your chest, he will get as close to your unguarded mind as he can - all the better to sour your dreams in a game of psychic chicken.
He delights in the head-tossing and mumbled protestations of the unwilling participants in his sport.
Tear yourself awake, however, and the game is over; Mare will bid a sulking retreat beneath the floorboards or attic he leaked out of. He is quickly forgiven though and won’t hide for long.
Tomorrow is another night.