When I was younger, I’d wander in the insomnia. There was a very large space of undeveloped acreage near our land that eventually got drained of its boggy tendencies and turned into mc mansions. But at the time, it was empty save for the paths, which I’d wander almost nightly. The only person who knew I did that was my father, also a life-long insomniac. He never reprimanded me for it, or for anything I did really. His violent storms would break over me for reasons of his own inner phases, which I knew, and thus I monitored them closely. little-girl-barometer. Once I was wandering back in the still-dark, and I found him in the yard taking pictures of the night sky. He had the tripod set up, and when I looked I saw what he was trying to capture despite its movement, the layers of clouds vaporous enough to see through. “Full moon”, he said. “I knew there was a reason I felt like beating the fucking shit out of somebody all day.” I remember watching my own mind think the kind of things it generally did against the backdrop of reading his: the moon’s gravity is responsible for tidal patterns in the large bodies of water on the earth; the fuller the moon the closer to sunset will be moonrise or something like that; 12? men have walked on the moon; one of them was named Buzz; my father scares me; the brightest stars in the sky are actually planets; if near dusk, it’s probably Venus . . .

chopin - prelude in E minor