(no subject)
the moon is a ball of cheese. floating on a line, gravitating, revolving. bringing ever-restless night. loving her babies as any mother would. the night-children play on fields of star-kissed grass and howl at their mother with pride and unconditional love. three clouds drift onto the face in a slow, eery dance that brings to mind thoughts of immortality and the undead. her yellow glaze bewitches human eyes until even the strongest fall to the ground in wonder, beaten by it. the night is when crickets come to whisper the past before one falls asleep, when fairytales are as real as one's own hand, when the tide is hypnotized by mother moon, when the sandman visits with sugary dreams or terrifying nightmares, when witches cackle and brew their curses upon the double-crossers. night is shades of yellow-tinted gray and blackest black. night is full of vagrant strangers and their haunting stories. night is when a shadow scares a grown man half to death. night is beautiful for those who appreciate depth in their view of the world. night is the most precious art.