Last night I placed the Moon between my eyes; thin veils of grayish gauzy-clouded materials surrounded her so gently. She dissolved gradually into my brain like a sweetmeat in a hungry mouth. My neurons glowed in moonlight soft, processing impulses in a more romantic and reflective way.

Signaling to faraway operational stations was now moon-mellowed. Image receptors in optic nerves were interpreted in tones of bluish texture, and passersby glowed in an eerie otherworldliness. There was a sense of tropical breeze, of sandy beaches, of songs of forest amid the pavement when the Moon lozenge dissolved in my scratchy brain last evening.

Word games, interpretations, and knowledge had been assaulting me all day long. How many words are there in languages? What are the things that they describe? I wondered, as I drove under the influence of a moon-drunk brain. A hundred-mile-long line of words, like elephants catching their tails in procession, are contained in the recesses of my mind. A million times more are stored on the bookshelves of libraries and forgotten attics, packaged in neat bundles of black and white, waiting to be brought to life, legend, and conviction by the gazing beams of light from somebody’s eyes.

They are classified into things measured and predicted. Science: things measurable, predictable and controlled. Technology: thoughts about whence and whither. Philosophy. Each one subcategorized. Then there are manuals of all sorts: for cooking, business and sex, for etiquette and car repair, for everything conceived in space and books about the inner worlds non-measurable, books of symbols. Those which try to chart the subtle, the ineffable; metaphysical explanations in mythological rhymes, which use the stars and the planes of consciousness in a woozy poetic language, to describe your placement in the cosmos, allowing for each a casting and a role that is understandably enchanting. It is really a beautiful story that helps counterbalance the arid word chains of the describers and measurers who fill the bookshelves with life’s procedures and prevailing norms.

There are also short-lived endless word chains describing the last tragedies and gossip in repetition, to saturate your mind and the curious nature of the human condition. Books, titles, words, definitions embraced with so much passion and conviction. It is like grasping clouds with desperate hands to feed a hungry child, a thing so unsubstantial and impossibly futile, while creating the illusion of nourishment. I do not know much beyond this body sac and its accompanying consciousness. What else to say? Oh, yes. I have been under the influence of many of these books of different types and inclinations and have matriculated myself in many schools of thought that meant so much to so many at any moment of time. But nowadays with this moon tumor in my brain - I can’t explain why - I have become word shy.

The neurons seem to have become engorged and fluffy, hypnotized into a trance, and cannot handle long sentences. Now, this is very embarrassing, as people do write me and phone me and even stop me on the road to talk and say anything. I look at their bluish contoured figures while listening to their vibrating voices that reveal secrets behind their word chain addictions.

I react to all these communications, avoiding the long definitions, the logic which escapes my understanding, and just feel the undertones, which are somehow quite clear for my moon-infested brain cells. And I answer in kind with a moon response.