The shrouded moon spent half the night glazing the trees, then left to peer at its own reflection in the Pacific. Instead of living in the present, I spent the other half of the night sunk in memory. The moon and I have something in common. I, however, cannot effect the tides. They are there, nevertheless, seeking to drown me while I am stranded, dug in up to my neck. I have the distinct sense that I've done all this, said all this, before. One time or another, I had a fever, and everything I saw was distorted. Reality is like that now. It is material for strange dreams. I wonder when they will begin?