When The Moon Dies Cold

Feb 1, 2020 Diary entry: It’s a dark night out here on the Moors, the campfire went out hours ago, the only light consists of a few splintered bones of moonlight that stab the night, making the darkness bleed out into your very soul, bloody bones of dead moonlight become stuck within your psyche like some horrible parasite that attaches itself to a spot you can’t reach, and there is no one around to pull it out, a painful tick that bites your mind until you scream to the very heavens and you ask “Why”, “Why here, why now, oh why, oh why oh why”, anyway, I caught one small fish last night, I don’t know what it was but I ate it anyway, also, the wienies and beans were especially good even though they were cold, I had dropped my matches down the latrine hole I dug outside the camp, ergo, no fire for the wienies and beans, no matter, this isn’t the end of the trail yet, they can put quicksand mires in Paulie’s path, they can build walls, they can ridicule Paulie at every turn, but Paulie will never give up, Paulie will keep on, the trail is difficult and fearsome but the fire within Paulie burns hot and it will never go out, Paulie may sup on cold wienies and beans but Paulie’s fire will most certainly cook his adversaries like dry stubble in a firestorm from you know where, well, I hear the coyotes howling and an owl is asking who it is that is still up at this ungodly hour, so Paulie will wish all a goodnight, good dreams, good wishes, and good luck, shalom…

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