Weirdness Magnet

I was driving home from the theatre the other day, and I could feel a tug on the side of me, as if a gentle, all-over pressure was pulling me in a particular direction, in this case, toward the right.

I look. The moon is about a zillion times bigger than it usually is, and crazy bright, hanging just in the treeline and on the roofs of houses like some fat unorthodox cat burglar. Stopped at a red light, I can see it moving, and wonder if it's some optical illusion. If I closed my eyes, I could feel it, pick it out in the sky like a blind man can feel the heat of a lamp and think he can see its brightness with his nonfunctioning retinas.

There's a terrible feeling of loneliness, and need, and of some unnamed, undone feeling... for all the people of the past who have looked at the beauty of that moon, and felt her tug. For the loss of the intangible natural beauties of the world, for the simplicity of the past, for the want of love and comfort, and the want of wildness and magic. For something... that wolves might howl for.