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In the lake tonight, the worlds of our thoughts are mirrored; up there the moon, an ambiguous and silver thought on the cloud-ruffled sky, tries to draw us to itself to steal our secrets.
Dim lights and ethereal figures weave through the surrounding woods. Nothing is as we expected, the air is rarefied, and the intertwined branches of the birches paint the stories of our ancestors.
We then begin to pull the dangling thread of our wool sweater. We pull and pull again, stripping away all our certainties; we pull and pull again, in joyful and shapeless hilarity.
On the path appears a slender man and he shows us his sketches. He cries, clings to our arm, and desperately asks us to provide him with new colors, new emotions.
The nightingale sings a lopsided romance, the dense rustle of the underbrush converses with the elusive flight of moths. We remain motionless, searching for ourselves in the woolen tangle at our feet.
We caress the man and, in a crystalline rush of heart, we promise him that we will be with him, that our thoughts will emerge from the lake and with them our colors, our music.
Deceptive and voracious moon! Once again, we will give you everything for thirty minutes of your splendor.
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