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It was another night, dull and dejected. It didn't have a face though, but seemed to be staring at me nonetheless. It's hands were busy with splitting open my head. I was a ghost, but in the shadow of the proper moon, I get tangible, I get real. If "real" means I cared or hurt or just knew what we all know while sticking pie in our mouths or washing our laundry. And if it's convenient, I'll take an extra second to linger looking in the window at your face if you're tangible too, while the moon admires the pasty silhoutte of it's immense roundness. "It's just another meal, just another meal.." And it's some loose gravel, a fence post, some vines dragging down the house and curling into the grass that looks at me as I'm devoured with a stoic shrug. Maybe, it will all mean just a little more tomorrow, but sadly I haven't the time to find out.
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