The water always called, whispering in strange tongues as her blood rushed and the tides surged. Between the moon and her there were no secrets. Nothing hidden from the gloaming that promised its night of strange fables, already stippling her skin as she dreamwalked the shoreline.

Even after such a long dark middle ages she resisted the cocoon until finally the gossamer weave was placed gently over her sagging shoulders. She folded herself into it gratefully and balled up to swim her way through the transition.

The Phoenix Motel languishes at the end of a long dusty highway, the bugs on your windscreen betraying how hard and fast the drive has been. The rooms are filling quickly as they always do this time of year. The smart money is getting locked in for the scorpion's moon.

Not all moons are created equal. The journey through the deep treacle of the Aquarian balsam is no ordinary dark mooning. Descending like an otherworldly cloak as beneath its soft sparking folds you are transported, this caravan of selves.

I was chatting with this old bird today and he told me a story from once upon a time in my backyard. In the beginning when his kind had arrived to this lush paradise, he gestured wildly with his wing, life was simple. They ate. They squawked. They flew. They slept.

Neptune is doing a roaring trade at the Zodiac Bar. Most every night booths crammed with strange cosmic couplings, the kind that crack the haze just the way he likes it. The room has been tilting and heaving with the constant choreography.

Trust your life.
Trust the wait.
Trust your soul.
Trust yourself.