As a very small child, I would lie in bed on moonlit nights such as this and imagine cites and landscapes in the indistinct shapes around me. Except for rare occasions when I was fevered, I don't recall ever seeing monsters in those shapes and shadows, even on those nights when my older sister had told me some terrifying story, which was one of her favorite pastimes. For me, the monsters were always concealed in hidden places -- the closet, the bathroom, some other part of the house, or lurking outside the window. But the shadows within the room held no dangers. They were only shadows, defining the magical light around them.
On moonless nights, when the room was all darkness, and undefined, it would open out in my imagination to threatening distances where unimaginable horrors awaited. Then, I would hide under the covers and wait to be slaughtered, or to fall asleep. I would try to remember the gentle moonlight and its magic, as though even the thought of it would act as a talisman, protecting me from the unknown threats around me. I think it was the memory of the moon which carried me to sleep those nights. But it was only the true light of the moon itself that brought me genuine repose. It remains my favorite form of light, even now.