Cracked out on moonlight, hazy from coasting through the night awake. I don't need drugs to feel this way. I am in tune with the mystics, the insomniacs, and the men who walk out of the ******* at 5 in the morning. We all have our reasons to be alive. Mine is lost in obscurity in between the lines traced on my palms. I envision God with a knife. Carving scratches on my hands predetermining my life. My mouth worries and my fingers translate. And all the while I'm holding a book in my heart enscribed with the message: Beautifully Bloomed, Beautifully Doomed. Who can read this cryptic message? The Moon.