In a moonbeam we talk about the little things of our lives. The music, the lights and the zombies around me. Such pitiful admiration. The sudden surge of energy and the night that's creeping in. And yet, my mind sways away from this hole in the ground to a memory that could have been, for now I am here and not there.
What are we doing, sitting here, in a little grove under the moonbeam?
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