I wished upon the first star I saw tonight until I realised it was only an aeroplane. This was not the night my wildest dreams were going to come true. So I turned my attention to the moon. The orb was unusually large that evening and strangely melancholy in its solitary beauty.
I sat mesmerised. As a soft glow was reflected in my perfectly circular pupils, my eyes glazed over as behind them danced the memory of many moons past until one eclipsed all others. None shone brighter or was as large as the African moon which I had been privileged to behold in the company of the man whose presence transformed what was already idyllic perfection into an ethereal interlude: a moment of emotion so pure, so unadulterated that one’s breath was suspended for fear of perforating the aura of stillnes.
They say that there are more suicides when there is a full moon. I do not believe that it possesses strange depressive powers but rather that it stirs waves of reminiscence within minds and souls into a whirlwind of insanity.
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