Untitled #7.

I took a walk tonight.

It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.

I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.

She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.

The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.

And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.