The night sky was dipped in the same shade of ink that sets over us now. I remember the past effortlessly: the road unwinding, fatigue seizing me by the second. My fingers went scrambling for sound, fumbling one radio station after static until her voice transcended through the speaker to my spirit. My soul rejuvenized. She named the sensation: Howling At the Moon, and as I sit under this supernova, my subconscious finally understands. Feel the skin on my limbs rising: I question the breath of wind that sharpens my nose, I stupefy from the way he looks at me with wonder of the earth centered in his gazing eyes. This organic fascination is surfacing purpose within me; shifting energy in the shape of ruin inching slowly towards rebirth. Luna blooms the fruits rooted in my ribcage.