i remember years ago, watching the large red moon staring down at the highway i found myself on, i remember barely believing the scene, the air that's so familiar now and yet still so foreign. the moon is smaller now, and pale, and there are still no stars, only dark satin magic, the night beautiful in her simplicity. the default is lying on the floor, on a bed of flowers, if only for the feeling of touch, more roughness and little battles of sensation against more skin. the flowers stretch everywhere, as if to show me the way, and i realise finally that it is only me here now, only me and my prayers and the unbearable, stuffy silence in my mind eating up time with dark, hungry eyes. visions are not linear, hardly anything seems to go in the same direction of time, and i keep finding myself returning to the same hiding spot, the same emotional turbulence in which there is still something to protect. meanwhile, i toast to myself and the comedy, and fall back to feel the carpet against my cheeks, and watch the moon in her dusty solitude. no dreams tonight, no humanity - only sensing