The ether smells bitter with melancholy and chaos unembraced. Is the full moon casting these discordant colors? Amid the discontent, somehow I remain unaffected. In a bubble of sensory pleasure and nomadic contentment, my joy bleeds from my chest in spurts, staining the pavement. As I ride into holy battle, I paint a trail of red life. If they wish, my friends can follow it to my secret cove.

At night, we stand under calm water and worship the golden moon. Love reflects and ricochets. It is time to take stock of our spirits; time to change up. Waiting is a form of action. Just breathe and be not afraid.