There is buttermilk in the house. I wish things such as this wouldn't happen. Every once in a while, my dad has my sister fetch a carton of the stuff. I innocently open the refrigerator, and there it is. Buttermilk. I am compelled to drink some. Once I drink some, I am compelled to drink more. It is like certain snack foods (though, unlike buttermilk, they are actually pleasant to ingest): there is no stopping once you have begun, unless by a massive effort of will. The flavor of this substance I find vile, and the texture revolting. Nevertheless, I must drink it. Buttermilk is like that monster in your dreams, the hideous visage you must turn and see. It is like the horrible, grisly accident from which you cannot turn away, once it has caught your eye. Buttermilk is the nightmare train wreck of beverages! It is there in the other room now, calling me to return. "One more sip," it says, "just a little taste. You KNOW you want it!" Oh, unspeakable, viscous liquid! I refuse! You will not sicken me more! Oh, may I have the strength to resist this perverse longing! This must be what it is like to desire a vampire.
I think maybe I need some tea.
Anyway. The bright moon has at last settled into the western woods, removing the harsh contrasts which had lingered most of the night. Softened, the houses now blend with their surroundings, and the world grows pleasantly vague for a while. Breezes have wakened the pine needles, filling the air with whispers. Very soon, the brief dark that follows moonset will pass, and then the colors of morning will emerge to vibrate on the horizon. I must go out to say goodnight to Orion before he fades. I will avoid the kitchen and its lurking, sour (yet so seductive) threat.