Your longing reaches to lose itself in something boundless, and the hunger that refuses to pass as clean drags it back at an angle, the two squared off and worn against each other. Neptune and Lilith sit square: the dream that idealizes and the desire you would not house-train crowd each other. You have paid for dressing raw want up as devotion, then watching the exiled appetite tear the dreamy fabric to ribbons. The Black Moon is no asteroid lost in the haze, it is the weight the longing is built to carry. That grinding carves an imagination that owes nothing to the brochure, a vision shaped each time the untamed hunger refused to stay veiled and demanded to be seen.
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