The Lord's Moon.
Slept like a werewolf, hair growing out of the eyes and rabid claws for fingers, the bloodthirst of a crazed demonic fiend. I dreamed of waking needles keeping.
St. Vulgaris. The compensatory murmurs; courage to follow gypsies into the forest, to steal from them, to be lured by their dark song, tempted. The prime force driven, apologies drifting up through the stars, mumbling prayers deep into St. Anus. On a running night like last lit, devouring wanderers wide. Angels crept past the fire, baring the teeth of ghosts.