The moon is ravenous tonight. It will not stop prodding me. I wake late in the night to find it pressed hard against the window beside me. Mark Twain once referred to the moon as a "whore," but I think he only half-meant that. I would prefer that Hemingway had said it, and he would have called the moon an “insatiable whore.” Better, that. Hemingway always hit the mark dead center.
I don’t know what’s wrong with the moon. Why does
it feel a need to pull at our ocean? What is to gain by sharing only one side
with us? Why is it so hungry for me tonight?
I just want to fall back into dreams about swimming
with fish or dreams in which all those I have lost are with me again. But this
bitch moon will not leave me be.
—Mitchell Hegman
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