at night i retire, still bound in the deceptively inoccuous shackles of sentience, of knowledge, and of the existence of the truth. through the shy aperture, that fault in the conception of the walls, the layers of thing, of matter, and of idea concretized by that higher presence, that seeks so fervently to contain me, i am able to glimpse the moon.

and i intertwine with the moon that glimmers, taunting me with its promise of the sun, i witness its freckles move, take shape, and wrangle with and in itself yet maintain what a celestial dance, a dance that fools none since it seeks to fool none. it lingers about, no foot stepping on rock yet moping effortlessly through the lunar welkin. he was formless yet whole, like it were in the safe, warm flesh of its mothers insides that mimic a loving *****. its every move sends a sonic signal. i saw myself in such a celestial animation. before i was in air, i was in the moon sometime. before i was born, i was a moon thing just like him. before i knew, before i saw, before i spoke, i was the moon. before i was under this deception of life, and this promise of death, i was beautiful nothing, just like him