The aureole of light unfurls from the moon only to the darkness closeby, the pale ring skimming the edges of a gray-laced cloud. And yet, the light itself seems to disappear as the edges of the moon yield to the darkness. Along with the wane of the moon, we ourselves begin to tuck in corners, our shoulders withering from the brunt of this life. These are the times when we lose hope, when the trails of light vanish from sight.
Breath by breath, the moon recedes, curling in on itself, fading away until a mere sliver hangs delicately in its place. We, too, shrink back: carrying a black pendant marked with a white, chalky line to defend against monsters, cringing at the leg of a fox gnawed down to the bone from the desperation to escape.
Struggling to the last gasp of moonshine, we ultimately concede to the inevitable hour of darkness and lose our words of convalescence to the silencing new moon. The glint of hope vanishes, and we submit ourselves, throwing up our white flags only to have them swallowed up by the night.
But as if on cue, the young moon peeks his head out from the velvet curtain. Reader, with wane, there is wax. In this issue, we invite you to come and search for the whispering promise of light.
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Sheep Don’t Float