Truthfully I reveal to you that The Lunar Princess arrived on this dark desolate street not on the eve of the August full moon, her gritty face barely illuminated by the phantom light of an ageing streetlamp, eyes almost as dead as the night yet still carrying a certain unnameable divinity, which days later the tabloid presses would consider “divine as moonshine”, a rouge priestess simultaneously innocent and gory, fragrant and plastic, yet still most attractive in her vulgar but unintended display of pink adolescent breasts. “How Brechtian!” you silently tell yourself in the midst of the gathering crowd before she reached out a hand dripping with blood and sweat mixed in this manner of fortitude only her entreating hand could design. The knife which introduced itself to your unprepared thigh was most unexpected, like the police arriving at the scene way too late. I, too, felt the sudden stab, a sudden lightning slicing through the flesh of the wide night sky. Thus these sympathies that burned the leaves on my chest, which days after would branch out and introduce my sodden soul to your burning heart and begin what is perhaps one of the lesser but unregrettably forgettable tragedies of my sordid life.