is the moon, pale blue, mottled, massive, dream, legend. Rising. A ship of gods from primordial tar, yard after yard of wrinkled black bulk, a farce of size displacing the entire ocean. There’s an Omega shape in phosphorescent white, and Jay’s stupor permits the dull understanding that this crescent is a mouth, twenty feet of closed mouth, and this obsidian skyscraper is no surfacing Atlantis. No colliding planet. It is a living thing.
Oh shiiiiiiiit
