Beneath a dream of a black moon, I wrap these words around you. Beneath a sky that’s both mirror and womb, there’s an image in my mind of a girl against the world. She’s both higher than a mountain and as low as the belly of a snake as it slithers through blades of grass in search of someplace to call its own. In her arms, and in her kiss, there’s heaven, and there’s bliss. Down each road and past every building, there’s an ocean of shit and another face just waiting to say yes. But that moon, how it calls to you the same as it calls to me. How it watches and guides without ever doing a thing, and yet it doesn’t need to, does it? No crowds or intellectuals. No money or systems of abuse, just the act of creation and the eyes of one undressing the mind of another. By the lake in full dark, the animals circle your feet. They tap tap tap the frozen ice and watch as you move by their side. Raising my camera, I capture what’s on the surface, but what you are inside is as fleeting to this life as is the realm of scent. It’s why I write. It’s what drives me now the same as it did back then, and against my best wishes, it shows no sign of diminishing. You are the reason why. The question remains unclear much the same as it always has done, but the older I get, the less it seems to matter. You wouldn’t question the meaning of a tree, nor the falling of snow upon outstretched hands, so why would I need to question these acts that place me far outside the world I used to know, but deep within the heart of the only one that makes me feel alive. Beneath a dream of a black moon, I wrap these words around you.