it’s funny how the half-bitten moon takes me back to those cold winter nights when i would stand outside, my arms shivering, trying to get a glimpse of the celestial body through the fog — a kind of restive peace descending all over me, blood in my hands, seemingly more blue than red. i was a witness to the change of every breath and every distant sound that would make its presence known to me.

now as i stand outside looking at the same half-bitten moon, i am not shivering and i am not under the spell of the quiet and peace, that may prevail elsewhere. but it is not the same moon; i am not the same eye or arm or form. every change received and given courses through me, through my blood that is in and not out, the night in me deeper, the music a darker hue…