Once again, the moon demands its dues—unseen tenants of the night plow the fields of our hidden psyche. Withering words rise and fall in the echoed sighs of something not yet lost.
The light-hearted irony of this abduction of time, where seconds dance like sugar in tea, is oft overlooked—much like your neighbor's cat that amuses itself nightly upon your fences.
Cross the hedgerow... ...to the echoing skylight.The harvest moon beckons with its radiant irony—a satirical lantern for weary truth-seekers clambering up the garden path of prospective rationality.