Incited to reminiscence, on my patio roof I sat as often I do in the late hours of the night: walls but no windows, a mounting wind rattled coming from the Pacific Ocean a few miles away, talking to Elohim, and his son Jesus, Lord of Hosts. I kept on recalling my younger days, while thinking of the moon, as if it was my neighbor, I appeared not to have no chance to grow drowsy, but drifted off from the three subjects: talking, dreaming and the searching for the moon. Had I not had a nightlight on the patio, and a streetlight alongside my house, it would have been pitch-darkness. My house large as it is has a manorial dignity to it, hard to light up the spacious roof patio at best. To many of my neighbors I am just an emaciated old man, poet of sort, hence a tinge eccentric for my ways. There was something provocatively fascinating about this night. The sky looked of the graces and spaciousness of a bygone era. The clouds looked like great ionic pillars reaching into a flying cross, with wings, and a fishtail on the end-back:

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