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  • When the night is dark and the moon is up, things take on a kind of indescribable color. Things you know to be blue are not quite blue anymore, but nor are they black, nor quite green, gray, or purple.

    They are more like a twinkling smudge in the air — an explosion of ink on a space ship, a bloom of unnameable algae suspended in a silty summer swamp, or a hologram of ninjas doing tango.

    Strangers, illuminated by their stories, are lit as if by moonlight. We strain our eyes to see them but they leave us so little to see, and so we fill in the blanks with the best and most beautiful ideas we can muster.

    Lit only by moonlight, strangers are magical creatures, capable of spurring dialogue and fantasy and lifting up latches of doorways that creek in the breeze and open into corridors that lead to the rest of our lives.

    In the moonlight, sometimes you wander into a mirror. It could be a pond or a pool or a puddle or a piece of glass propped up against a wall. It could even be a stranger who moves the way you move, sees the way you see, feels the way you feel, and you stand there for a moment, facing your reflection, and then it starts to move, and you realize there are different versions of a person and a puddle and a partner and a story, and that what you see and feel and hear will only ever be a kind of inky smudge compared to what it really is, and so what you have to do is take your inky smudge and blend it with the other inky smudge and then when they combine there is something new to know, and when you’re in it you know it, even though you can’t say it, because there are no words to talk about shadows in moonlight, so you wait there together, next to the pond and the wall in the grass, two inky shadows crouched on the ground, and in between you on a rock you light a single candle and you block it with your bodies so you’ll have a little time to see each other’s faces before the moths arrive.
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