The mustached man takes out a watch. I also take out my watch. He says, I am late.
I say, I am late.
The moon rises one day and a night late, dressed like a bleeding heart. Totally
broken - the Moon may be hemophiliac.
The Earth reeks, choking my nose with sorrow. I walk in the opposite direction of
the Moon. I worry - how can the Moon be so miserable -
I think of what happened yesterday - the darkness - and what will happen tomor-
row - the darkness -
The Moon lags behind, refusing to march. My barely visible shadow wobbles up and
down. The Moon can hardly bear its own weight., foreshadowing the menacing
gloom of tomorrow. Now I must find some other word.
I must fight against the words of the Heavens, which are like the coldest winter. I
must stay frozen between the iceberg and the snowy mountain. I must forgive ev-
erything about the Moon - to discover a new moon.
Soon I shall hear a deafening noise. The Moon will fall. The Earth will bleed pro-
fusely.
People will tremble. They will swim in the Moon's evil blood and freeze.
Is this strange ghostliness infiltrating my bone marrow? Perhaps only I will be able
to sense the final tragedy on the Earth, which even the Sun has abandoned.
I finally chase down my galloping shadow and get in front of it. Now, my shadow
chases me as if it is my tail.
The Moon is in front of me. New - new - like a flame - or perhaps like a rapturous
flood -
