Lord Moth has settled in,
and after an evening of rain so heavy the droplets cratered the roads
and pavements and a mist formed at ground level you couldn't see
through, the moon is out and he is sitting with a up of tea in his
garden.
He has an art deco table
next to the hidden entrance to his black crystal cave, and the Hawk
Moths circle protectively above, watching out for intruders.
The sky is as black as his
cave home, and so it is time to send out his moon-a-mucks, who are
sad that they can't find any moonflowers to sing at to make the
crystals grow. They are not sad for long however, for Lord Moth in
his decadent wisdom has tasks for them to enjoy.
On the moon, the
moon-a-mucks sing to crystals to make them grow. On earth, they make
dreams grow and flourish by the same means, dreams that are broadcast
through quantum space back to the observant mind of Lord Moth for him
to enjoy. It doesn't matter who it is, the most unimaginative old
catankerous whisky bibber, or a flighty 19 year old who has had
nothing but joy rain down on her life. The moon-a-mucks sit outside
their windows on their hind legs, and sing softly, reverberating
window pane, sheets of glass, all in perfect sub atomic harmony.
The song penetrates the
nerve systems of the sleepers, and no matter who they are, they find
themsevles dreaming. They might be happy dreams, sad dreams, violent
ones or even violet ones. Dreams of achievement, dreams of
disappointment...and best of all the dreams that dreamers are sad to
wake up from.
And when they start, Lord
Moth puts down his book and his tea cup, relaxes back, and takes it
all in. He watches every dream his twelve moon-a-mucks make every
night, and he misses nothing.
He misses nothing, sees
everything, and decides what to do about the dreams later, when the
first rays of the sun begin to lick along the horizon, a solar cat
with cream
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 03.06.15
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