I wonder what I'm tapping into when I close my eyes and the moths arrive with their splenid white wings and spiraling dance. What kind of light have they found (?) in this pitiful garden with photos of roses and lilies and peonies growing past their page. Migrating picture blooms...growing toward a mandarin sun.... and all it is is dripping paint trailing down a false sky. Just paint and paper, crinkling up its ashamed face. A circling white winged chase. And I understand what the game is today. To be real, unreal, real, and the pain.... What are we today? Can we be reality? Ever the truth? Is flesh any more true than paint on the sky? And the moths cry raindrops; now they're the clouds. Who's to say pretend isn't normal? Flying shapeshifters, choose your truth for the day.