Necronomicon: They're Just Burning Memories & Notes From A Certain Scotsman

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When clouds swim in front of the moon and obscure its light completely, those same clouds instantly shine white and cold. When black clouds are mixed in with the white, a delicate chiaroscuro is formed. Behind that pattern of dappling dark, the waning moon is concealed, wreathed with ashen or lilac or pale blue light, full or halved or a shape more slender still, waning to a single sliver.

Each time he gazed up at the mid-month moon, he would see a person’s face. Ever since he was very young, all the grown-ups’ explanations had fallen on deaf ears: he never could manage to make out the shapes he was told were there. All that was apparent were two eyes, seemingly lost in thought, above the shadowed suggestion of a nose.

On nights when the moon is unusually large, he can leave the curtains open and let its light flood every inch of his apartment. He can pace then, up and down. In the light filtering out of a grey pondering face, the darkness soaking out of two blue eyes.

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