There was a time when I’d dream about the night sky. Allowed it to wrap around the tips of my fingers as I lie there sleeping. Nocturnal typewriting. A vampiric nature of feeling enthralled while the moon gazed over a utopian wasteland. How soon we forget that it is the moon that keeps us sane while the sun destroys our shell. As if it was trying to rip flesh from bone and our souls from memory. The moon simply glowed in an unmistakable haze. We naturally have a fear of darkness, but tip our hats to the nights where we forgotten everything. Every lie that was told to us, every piece of our hearts that was given away, and every person who only existed for that brief encounter. Every person whose oblivion swallowed them up. Not in a blaze of glory. But in a harsh reality that reminds us of our mortality.

And yet the moon. With its haunting yet discernible glow. A signal to let our morals fall and our nights run wild. Opposite from the sun. The sun will greet us with a warm feeling of regret of the night before. Scorch and scold us for revealing our true nature under the moon’s influence. We are children of the Umbra.

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