J. Scott Smith

It is, by night, a mere ghost, a spirit, a flowing projection, a mimic of things that are and will never be again nor have been before, and all of it's forms seemingly material and with breath in the mystic powers of a lifeless moon, stalking it's own existence while bathed in the haunting enchantment of a light not come from where it is seen.

The moon, in it's delicate lustre, it's quiet yet violent face, it's grandeur and simplicity, lays all it's secrets forth within a gesture of challenge and dare; secrets that do not belong and yet are bestowed upon her by the cowardly feared, the most scholarly occultists to ever make their paths over the face of the planet: the greatest of all, man. It is she who is blamed for all that is and is not, which is there yet has no substance, no being.

The sun, worshipped as a god, giver of life and all it's subsequent benefits, and cursed by many as a killer, a light of destruction and an infernal warrant against all life and lifeless existences; worshipped and cursed for it's vibrant, radiating, warming, burning, defined and intelligible light, and because it is what it was designed to be: the sun, a candle and a fire, a death angel and an angel of mercy. In it's light, between the dawn and the dusk, dwell innumerable clowns, the ghosts, the beings, the spirits, the existing non-existent ones; they become obvious spectacles of wonder and amusement, acrobats bouncing this way and that, conforming instantly to the surrounding terrain, performers of all manner of insanely cruel and amazingly kind acts.

By day it is harmless, a toy of sorts, an amusing occurrence; by night it is a spiritualistic being, seeking to prey upon all living souls. By name it is the follower of all, the form of the followed, doer of all that is done by every living, moving thing, the very image of all that exists; shadow to all, whether followed or watched.

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