It’s the year of the super moon; every few months, it’s at its biggest ever, and we’re drawn to our windows and out our front doors, clutching our robes around us and blearily staring at the sky. We don’t want to miss it, just like we won’t want to miss it a few weeks from now, just like we refused to sleep through it a month ago.
I’m compelled to strain my neck again tonight and let my thoughts get sucked into space right through my eyeballs. I sit in my backyard, surrounded by orange trees and city lights. I tilt my head back and see only the sky.
This is the chill that announces illness. This is the fatigue that follows a struggle. This is the quiet at the end of the record, stretched ever on into the night.